THE  SIXTH 
SENSE 

AND  OTHER 
STORIES 

MARGARET  SUTTONBRISCOE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/ 


"  '  LET  THEM   OPPOSE,'   HE   SAID,   STURDILY  " 


The  Sixth  Sense 

and  Other  Stories 


By 
MARGARET  SUTTON  BRISCOE 

Author  of  "Jimty,and  Others" 


Illustrated 


NEW   YORK   AND  LONDON 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

J899 


BY   THE    SAME    AUTHOR. 


JIMTY,  AND    OTHERS.      Illustrated   by    \V.  T. 
SMEDLEY  and  A.  B.  FROST.    Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Contents: — Jimty,  The  Price  of  Peace,  An  Echo, 
The  Christmas  Mummers,  Concealed  Weapons,  Annie 
Tousey's  Little  Game,  Princess  I-Would-I-Wot-Not,  It 
is  the  Custom,  Salt  of  the  Earth,  A  Goose-Chase,  An 
Entomological  Wooing,  The  Quarter  Loaf. 


NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON  : 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS. 


Copyright,  1899,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 
All  rights  reserved. 


tvl  ,./ 


TO 
THE   HON.  HENRY   E.  ROWLAND 

1Fn  ^Bemorg  of 

"PROVINCIA" 


21302R9 


To  the  editors  of  Harper  s  Periodicals,  The  Century 
Magazine,  and  ScribneSs  Magazine,  I  wish  to  express  my 
thanks  for  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the  stories  collected 

in  this  volume. 

M.  S.  B. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  SIXTH  SENSE i 

UNCLE  ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 82 

AN  I.  O.  U in 

A  WILL  AND  A  WAY 137 

OF  HER  OWN  HOUSEHOLD 158 

APPLES  OF  GOLD 177 

MATILDA'S  ADDRESS-BOOK 197 

A  TEMPLE  OF  SOLOMON 228 

THIS  MORTAL  COIL 243 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


'LET   THEM   OPPOSE,'  HE   SAID,  STURDILY".       .        Frontispiece 
'  NEARER   CAME  ANNIE  WITH  A  PLATE  OF  SOUP 

IN   HER   HAND" Facing f.  IO6 

''THEY   ARE  ALL  HOLLOW*" "         150 

'  '  WHAT    IN   THE    WORLD    ARE   YOU    STANDING 

ON?'"   .  "         2l8 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

"DON'T  take  it  so,  Helen.  You  were  pre 
pared  for  this,  my  dear ;  it  might  be  so  much 
worse." 

"Worse  !     Oh,  mother,  this  is  the  worst !" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  dear — no !  You  aren't  a  mother 
yourself,  or  you'd  feel  at  once  what  I  mean. 
The  last  six  months  of  doubts  nearly  maddened 
me.  Now  that  we  know  he  is  dead,  it  is  we  only 
who  suffer  ;  but  alive — he  might  be  enduring 
everything." 

Helen  shuddered  rebelliously,  lifting  her 
head  from  her  mother's  knee  and  wiping  away 
her  tears. 

"Mamma,  I  can't  look  at  things  the  way 
you  do.  You  only  allow  a  choice  between 
Jack  horribly  maimed  or  dead.  I  can't  think 
of  him  as  anything  but  alive  and  well,  and  so 
strong  and  big,  and  loving  us  so." 

"Don't,  don't,  dear !"  cried  the  mother,  sharp 
ly.  She  broke  into  sudden,  violent  weeping.  "  I 
can't  stand  this.  Let  me  bear  it  my  own  way." 

A  I 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

The  two  women  clung  together  again,  the 
ruthless  young  lips  that  had  beaten  down  the 
mother's  hard-won  philosophy  showering  re 
pentant  kisses. 

"Do  you  think,"  Helen  whispered,  softly, 
"  that  it  would  hurt  you  too  much  to  tell  me  a 
little  more  now?" 

"  I  should  like  to,"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  simply. 
"  It  always  helps  me,  to  talk  things  over.  The 
young  fellow  was  very  kind.  He  said  he  would 
have  come  to  see  us  before,  but  he  was  wounded 
himself  at  Gettysburg — not  an  hour  after  he 
left  our  boy  dead  on  the  field — and  ill  in  hos 
pital  for  a  long  time.  And  then  he  didn't 
know  we  had  no  news  of  Jack.  It  was  the 
merest  chance  goodness  of  heart,  a  kind 
ness  for  a  dead  comrade,  that  made  him  come 
to  us.  He  thought  we  might  like  to  know 
what  Jack's  last  words  were.  He  saw  the  last 
breath  leave  his  lips ;  his  knee  was  under  Jack's 
head  as  he  passed  away,  just  as  mine  is  under 
yours,  Helen." 

"Oh,  mamma  !"  groaned  the  girl,  protesting 
involuntarily. 

"  I  won't  tell  you  more  if  it  distresses  you, 
dear.  I  preferred  to  hear  all  myself,  though  I 
felt  it  impossible  to  bear  at  first,  just  as  you 
do." 

2 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

"Don't  tell  me  any  more,  mamma  —  later 
perhaps.  But  just  one  thing — what  were  his 
last  words  ?" 

"  Of  us,  dear  :  '  Mother — Helen — my  love.' 
That  was  what  his  comrade  came  to  bring  us." 

The  mother's  lips  quivered  as  she  gave  the 
message,  but  she  would  not  give  way.  Helen 
sobbed  uncontrollably. 

"  Oh,  Jack  !  Dear,  dearest  Jack  !  To  re 
member  me  too — to  send  us  his  love — " 

Mrs.  Duain  laid  her  hand  comfortingly  on 
the  bowed  head. 

"  I  have  something  more  to  tell  you,  some 
thing  that  ought  to  comfort  you.  It  has  me," 
she  said,  softly.  "  Those  last  words  were  not 
all  for  you  and  me.  They  seemed  to  be  only  a 
message  to  us  ;  even  his  messenger  thought 
they  were  ;  but  it  was  not  just  your  name  and 
mine  and  his  love  to  us  that  Jack  meant,  Helen. 
Those  last  two  words,  '  My  Love,'  were  not  as 
a  message  to  us  at  all,  but  as  a  name  to  him. 
He  has  left  us  a  legacy." 

Helen  sat  upright  on  the  floor  at  her  mother's 
feet,  pushing  back  the  hair  from  her  wet  face 
and  looking  up  in  wonder. 

"  Something  very  extraordinary  and  very 
beautiful  has  happened.  I  have  lost  a  son  and 
gained  a  daughter  in  the  same  hour.  Did 
3 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

you  know  that  Jack  was  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried  ?" 

Helen  did  not  reply  in  words.  Motionless 
listening  answered  for  her  ignorance. 

"It's  quite  true,  dear;  she  has  just  told  me 
herself.  She  came  in  to  call  formally — a  for 
mal  call  from  her  seems  strange  to  think  of 
now ;  she  was  shown  into  this  room  just  as 
Jack's  comrade  left  me.  I  was  utterly  over 
come.  You  were  away,  and  I  needed  some  one. 
Poor  child  !  she  was  needing  care  herself.  And 
there  was  I,  blind  thing,  crying  and  sobbing 
and  blurting  out  the  news  of  my  loss  to  her.  I 
might  have  gone  on  forever  if  I  hadn't  heard 
something  in  her  voice  that  made  me  look  up 
suddenly,  and  then  I  saw  her  poor  face  ;  but 
the  voice  was  enough.  Do  you  remember  the 
story  of  the  old  friend  who  wrote  to  a  widow 
when  her  husband  died  just  two  words — 'Oh, 
Madam  !'  That  story  always  touched  me  so. 
All  this  poor  child  said  was,  '  Oh,  Mrs.  Duain  !' 
and  it  was  like  a  tortured  cry." 

Helen  caught  her  mother's  hands  eagerly — 
so  much  hung  on  a  word,  a  name. 

"'  But,  mamma,  you  haven't  told  me — you 
haven't  once  said — " 

"  Hush  !"  whispered  Mrs.  Duain,  quickly  ; 
"here  she  is.  Did  you  suppose  I  could  part 
4 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

with  her  at  once  ?  Don't  let  her  know  that  I 
have  told  you,  Helen.  It  is  important,  re 
member." 

She  had  as  well  spoken  warningly  to  the 
shifting  winds.  Every  line  of  her  daughter's 
expressive  face  was  always  as  speakingly  tell 
tale  as  the  mother's.  As  she  now  turned  with 
intense  eagerness  towards  the  opening  door,  the 
woman  who  appeared  on  the  threshold  had  only 
to  give  one  glance  at  her  before  she  paused, 
shrinking  into  the  sheltering  curtain  and  cry 
ing  out,  in  a  breathless  reproach, 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Duain,  you  said  you  would  tell  no 
one  !" 

Mrs.  Duain  hurried  forward,  but  not  so  quick 
ly  as  Helen.  The  young  girl,  with  charming 
impulsiveness,  sprang  to  the  doorway  and 
twined  her  arms  about  the  reluctant  figure 
thus  hovering  as  it  were  on  the  outskirts  of 
their  family  life.  She  drew  her  into  the  room 
with  a  large  and  generous  motion  of  her  strong 
young  arms,  that  seemed  to  say  this  was  but  a 
symbol  of  what  her  heart  was  doing. 

"  Mamma  couldn't  help  telling  me.  Wouldn't 
it  have  been  cruel  not  to  tell  me  ?  I  shall  love 
you  so  dearly.  And  you  will  love  me,  won't 
you,  An — Annita  ?"  She  stumbled  a  little  over 
the  name,  and  laughed,  half  embarrassed,  half 
5 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

tearful.  "  That's  your  name,  isn't  it  ?  It  seems 
absurd  that  I  shouldn't  be  quite  sure,  but,  you 
see,  I  haven't  known  you  so  very  well — though 
I  always  liked  you  ;  and  now  shall  you  be  able 
to  love  me  ?" 

Annita  Andrews — for  that  was  her  name — 
looked  silently  and  wistfully  from  one  to  the 
other,  her  eyes  lingering  last  on  the  eager 
young  face  pressing  near  hers.  In  appearance 
she  was  as  unlike  the  mother  and  daughter, 
with  their  clever,  irregular  features  and  vivid 
faces,  as  it  was  possible  to  be.  There  could 
never  have  been  a  woman  born  into  the  Duain 
family  with  so  delicately  regular  or  so  sealed  a 
face.  Beauty  of  feature  and  a  certain  charm 
of  contrasting  coloring  she  had,  for  the  brown 
eyes  were  clear  and  soft,  the  contour  of  the 
face  was  beautiful  and  finely  cut,  the  brow  un 
der  the  fair  hair  was  shapely  and  low  ;  but, 
with  so  much  said,  there  was  still  to  be  ardently 
desired  something  that  was  missing.  The  face 
was  uninteresting,  lacking  wholly  change  and 
charm  of  expression.  There  was  no  proof  of 
that  delightful  perceptiveness  and  receptive- 
ness  which  can  render  the  plainest  face  woman 
ly  and  attractive.  An  occasional  wistfulness 
in  the  too  shallow  brown  of  the  eyes,  a  slightly 
appealing  droop  of  the  mouth,  were  the  only 
6 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

claims  to  expression  made  by  features  that 
might  have  been  extremely  lovely  if  but  a  lit 
tle  less  sealed.  This  was  the  woman  who  was 
vainly  striving  to  reply  to  Helen  Duain's  im 
petuous  approach,  vainly  seeking  a  voice  which 
it  seemed  she  could  not  force  to  obey  her. 
Twice  she  tried  to  answer,  but  her  words  died 
away  as  they  came  ;  and  at  last,  with  a  glance 
of  appealing  reproach  towards  Mrs.  Duain,  she 
turned  aside,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  You  have  frightened  her,  dear.  Give  her 
to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  compassionately  ;  but 
Helen,  with  a  stir  at  her  breast,  thought  she 
felt  the  girl  she  still  held  in  her  arms  move 
towards  her,  though  ever  so  slightly,  and  drew 
her  closer  possessively.  To  take  one  to  her, 
Mrs.  Duain  had  to  take  both  ;  but  of  this  her 
motherly  arms  were  capable. 

"  I'm  a  hopelessly  leaky  old  woman,  my  dear," 
she  said.  "  You  must  try  to  forgive  me,  An- 
nita.  But,  you  see,  Helen  came  in  just  after 
you  had  told  me,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  to 
tell  her.  If  you  hadn't  just  told  me — " 

She  broke  off  with  the  implication  that  un 
der  other  circumstances  she  would  surely  have 
guarded  the  secret  jealously,  which  she  doubt 
less  believed,  but  none  the  less  it  was  far  from 
the  truth,  for  Mrs.  Duain  was  quite  right  when 
7 


THE   SIXTH   SENSE 

she  described  herself  as  hopelessly  leaky.  Her 
sympathy  was  too  sweet  and  real  to  lose  at  any 
price,  so  her  friends  went  on  confiding  in  her, 
even  though  knowing  in  the  very  moments  of 
confidence  that  the  price  must  be  betrayal  at 
some  date,  late  or  early,  and  a  betrayal  so  nai've 
and  inevitable  that  no  one  could  complain  very 
bitterly.  Nor  did  Annita  complain  now,  be 
yond  that  first  reproachful  glance. 

"  My  two  daughters  !"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  with 
feeling,  drawing  the  two  heads  down,  one  on 
either  shoulder. 

"  Of  course  I  love  you,  because  you're  a 
part  of  Jack,"  whispered  Helen,  across  her 
mother's  bosom.  "  If  only  Jack  could  see  us 
now  !" 

"  He  does  !"  cried  Mrs.  Duain,  fervently, 
glancing  up  ;  "  he  does  !" 

Quick  tears  fell  from  her  lashes  down  on 
the  face  of  the  girl  she  held  so  closely  for  that 
son's  sake  ;  and  as  they  fell,  Annita  looked  up 
with  a  struggling,  gasping  breath.  She  spoke 
as  if  with  an  agony  of  effort. 

"  I — I  can't  stand  this.     I — " 

"  What    are    we   thinking   of  ?"  cried    Mrs. 

Duain.     "  Of  course  this  is  too  much  for  her." 

With  her  usual  quickness  of  motion  she  thrust 

Helen  from  her  and  passed  her  hand  over  the 

8 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

new  daughter's  quivering  features,  closing 
down  the  eyelids  soothingly.  "  Rest  there,  my 
dear  child.  Stop  thinking  for  a  moment.  No, 
don't  try  to  talk."  She  stopped  the  quivering 
lips  with  her  soft,  motherly  touch.  The  girl's 
face  lay  heavily  on  her  shoulder.  "  Helen," 
cried  Mrs.  Duain,  suddenly,  "  come  quickly;  she 
has  fainted.  Help  me  to  the  couch.  Oh,  poor, 
poor  child !" 

If  Annita  Andrews  had  been  capable  of 
thinking  out  a  deliberate  plan  by  which  to  steal 
her  way  most  quickly  into  the  hearts  of  Jack 
Duain's  mother  and  sister,  she  could  have  fall 
en  on  no  more  subtle  and  instant  method  than 
this  very  real  illness.  It  seemed  at  once  to 
differentiate  her  grief  from  theirs,  and  set  it 
apart  as  something  more  peculiarly  sacred. 
Mrs.  Duain  knew  that  she  still  had  one  child, 
and  Helen  that  she  still  had  her  mother ;  but 
both  knew  that  Annita  Andrews  had  nothing 
more  of  a  home  and  family  life  than  a  room 
in  an  aunt's  house — a  home  already  complete 
in  family  and  interests  long  before  her  en 
trance.  In  a  vague,  motherly  way  Mrs.  Duain 
had  often  pitied  the  shy,  undemonstrative  girl, 
though  that  pity  had  never  gone  so  far  as  to 
reach  the  point  of  interest.  Annita  Andrews 
had  always  seemed  to  her  to  lack  place  and 
9 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

background  as  a  personal  inheritance,  and  had 
never  been  able  to  conquer  these  for  herself. 
Something  of  all  this  Mrs.  Duain  murmured 
in  pitying  accents  to  Helen  across  the  uncon 
scious  figure,  and  Helen  was  thinking  it  all 
over  as  she  sat  by  the  side  of  the  couch,  gen 
tly  chafing  Annita's  hands,  and  applying  such 
home  remedies  as  her  mother's  experience  sup 
plied.  When  the  physician  they  had  summon 
ed  came  hurrying  in  he  made  no  change  in  the 
treatment,  pronouncing  the  attack  harmless. 
It  was,  in  fact,  already  beginning  to  yield.  It 
seemed  to  Helen  that  she  could  see  the  swoon 
breaking  under  their  efforts  as  still  water 
breaks  when  a  stone  is  flung  into  it.  Signs  of 
consciousness  formed  and  broke  and  formed 
again  in  the  white  face,  always  in  wider  and 
wider  circles.  Now  the  eyelids  quivered,  and 
again  the  lips  moved. 

"  Had  she  a  fall  ?"  the  physician  asked.  He 
was  an  old  family  friend  as  well.  "Did  she 
have  a  fall  or  a  blow?" 

And  Mrs.  Duain  assented  :  "A  very  heavy 
blow.  My  dear  friend,  we  have  just  heard 
with  certainty  of  my  boy's  death." 

The  physician  forgot  his  patient  and  looked 
up  quickly.  "At  last !  And  what  we  all  feared. 
Any  news  is  better  than  none,  dear  madam, 
10 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

believe  me.     So  he  is  really  gone,  and  only  last 
night  we  were  talking  of  him." 

"  Where  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Duain,  with  that  eager 
ness  for  hearing  praise  of  the  dead  which  be 
longs  to  all  who  have  lost  by  death — as  our 
one  poor  hope  of  their  earthly  immortality. 
The  old  friend  understood  and  humored  the 
mother's  wish. 

"  At  a  little  dinner  party.  I  wish  you  could 
have  been  there,  only  no  ladies  were  present. 
Some  one  chanced  to  speak  your  boy's  name, 
and  there  was  instant  silence.  Then  some  one 
else  said,  out  loud,  '  How  that  man  is  remem 
bered  !'  I  sat  next  our  host.  I  could  see  the 
water  rise  in  his  eyes  as  he  got  to  his  feet. 
''Jack  Duain]  was  all  he  said.  We  rose  up  to 
drink  without  another  word.  Nobody  wanted 
to  speak.  That's  the  man  he  was.  A  son  to 
miss  indeed ;  a  friend  to  lament.  Do  you  mean 
me  to  understand  that  my  patient  here — "  He 
paused. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  choking  and  wiping 
her  eyes.  "  Oh  yes,  poor  child.  If  he  had  lived 
she  would  have  been  his  wife." 

"  Poor  child  indeed  !"  said  the  physician,  with 
more  than  professional  pity. 

"  Be  quiet,"  cried  Helen  ;  "  she  hears  us.     I 
think  she  has  heard  you  both  all  the  time." 
n 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

She  had  seen  the  last  confining  circle  break 
ing.  The  color  was  rising  in  Annita's  face ; 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up  at  them. 
The  physician  approached  gently,  but  his  pa 
tient  turned  away  sharply  from  his  pitying 
gaze  and  again  closed  her  eyes.  He  respected 
her  implied  wish. 

"  Her  pulse  is  stronger,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Duain.  "  She  will  do  very  well  now,  only  I 
should  advise  entire  quiet  for  a  week  at  least. 
There  has  been  a  severe  shock.  I  wish  her 
aunt's  house  were  a  little  less  gay,  a  little  less 
full  of  young  people.  Hers  is  anything  but  a 
quiet  home." 

"  How  much  quieter  could  ours  be  !"  said 
Mrs.  Duain,  quickly — "  only  Helen  and  me, 
and  our  house  now  one  of  mourning." 

"Ah!"  said  the  physician,  bowing  himself 
out  from  the  room  and  from  this  story ;  "  I 
understand.  She  is  safer  with  you  than  with 
me,  I  see.  You  are  still  a  good  mother  to  your 
son,  my  dear  Mrs.  Duain." 

Mrs.  Duain  sat  down  by  the  other  side  of 
the  couch  from  Helen.  "  You  heard,  my  dear," 
she  said,  quietly;  "will  you  stay  with  us  for 
a  time  and  let  us  care  for  you  ?" 

Annita  looked  up  at  her  with  a  dazed  ex 
pression.  She  struggled  to  sit  up  on  the  couch. 

12 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

"  Let  you  care  for  me?"  she  repeated.    "  Oh  yes, 
yes;  but  I  can't  stay  here.     I  can't  stay  here." 

Both  words  and  manner  were  feverishly  dis 
tressed. 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  soothingly. 
"  Now,  my  child,  be  reasonable.  You  are  ill, 
but  not  too  ill  for  me  to  talk  a  little  plain 
sense  to  you.  You  know,  we  all  know,  that 
your  aunt's  house  is  not  exactly  a  home  to  you. 
Indeed,  it  is  not  a  home  to  any  of  them.  They 
have  never  seemed  to  me  to  pause  long  enough 
to  know  each  other — to  love  each  other  and 
show  it.  Why,  caresses  are  as  natural  to  Helen 
and  me  as  breathing  and  living.  Oh  yes,  I 
know  they  are  all  kind  to  you,  but — is  it  like 
this  ?"  And  she  stooped  and  gathered  the  girl 
into  her  arms. 

"  Don't  refuse  us,"  pleaded  Helen,  on  the 
other  side.  "  Don't,  dear  Annita.  Pray,  pray 
stay  with  us." 

"  Let  us  say  only  for  this  one  week,  then," 
urged  Mrs.  Duain,  quick  to  yield  part  where 
she  saw  it  wise. 

Annita,  her  head  languidly  resting  on  Mrs. 
Duain's  motherly  shoulder,  looked  still,  as  if 
dazzled,  from  one  eloquent  face  to  the  other, 
each  saying  quite  as  much  in  silence  as  when 
their  lips  spoke. 

13 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

"  I  never  saw  love  like  this  before,"  she  fal 
tered.  Her  lips  quivered,  her  face  flushed,  and 
her  eyes  and  mouth  grew  as  self-pitiful  as  a 
lost  child's.  Mrs.  Duain  thought  she  had  never 
seen  her  so  near  great  beauty. 

"I  can  only  just  remember  my  parents,"  the 
girl  went  on,  brokenly,  "  and  then  came  board 
ing  -  school,  and  then  my  aunt's  home,  and — 
yes,  they  are  kind  there,  but  it's  not  like  this. 
No,  I  never  saw  love  like  this." 

"  Except  from  Jack,"  corrected  Helen. 

The  crimson  shot  up  over  the  white  face  in 
a  blush  so  painful  that  Mrs.  Duain,  startled  by 
the  change,  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips,  glanc 
ing  silencingly  at  Helen.  But  in  her  heart  she 
was  exulting  in  the  sight  of  a  love  that  held 
its  privacy  so  sacred.  Death  seemed  less  a 
separation  when  a  girl's  cheek  blushed  hotly 
for  him  who  was  gone  from  them  forever. 
With  a  quick,  womanly  motion  she  stooped  and 
hid  the  flushed  face  against  her  own  protect- 
ingly.  She  could  feel  that  Annita  lay  more 
and  more  closely  in  her  warm  embrace  ;  her 
hand  was  timidly  returning  the  clasp  of  Helen's 
hand.  Suddenly  she  lifted  her  head  strongly 
and  withdrew  from  them  both  ;  but  it  was  only 
to  hold  out  her  hands  anew,  with  a  motion  as 
if  offering  herself  freely  to  each  of  them.  There 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

was  so  little  of  native  impulsiveness  about  her 
that  the  gesture  carried  more  meaning  than 
from  another  less  reserved  and  shy. 

"  You  will  stay  !"  cried  Helen,  joyfully. 

"  I  must,"  she  answered.  "  I  can't — no,  I  can't 
turn  away  love  like  this.  I  must  take  it,  if  only 
for  this  week."  She  paused  to  steady  her  voice. 
When  she  spoke  again  the  effort  made  it  seem 
almost  hard.  "  Only  for  this  week,"  she  re 
peated,  firmly. 

It  was  rather  an  anxious  week  they  spent 
together,  as  it  could  hardly  fail  to  be  with  the 
conditions  given.  In  the  first  place,  little  com 
plications  began  at  once  to  arise  that  ought 
to  have  been  readily  foretold,  but  that  were 
evidently  unforeseen  by  Annita,  whose  shrink 
ing  wish  to  keep  her  secret  was  the  cause  of 
trouble.  The  mere  fact  of  her  presence  in  the 
house  at  this  time  was,  as  Mrs.  Duain  well 
knew  it  must  be,  fair  ground  for  comment; 
and  there,  too,  were  the  girl's  relations  to  be 
considered.  After  due  thought,  Mrs.  Duain, 
who  had  her  own  rather  imperial  methods  of 
adjusting  affairs,  made  up  her  mind  as  to  her 
course  of  action,  and  Annita's  as  well.  The 
engagement  was  to  be  announced,  not  formal 
ly,  but  by  a  word  spoken  here  and  there.  She 
meant  to  take  no  action  without  Annita's  per- 
15 


THE    SIXTH   SENSE 

mission,  but  that  permission  she  intended  to 
have. 

Annita  Andrews,  and  indeed  all  of  her  fami 
ly,  though  with  as  desirable  a  social  standing 
as  her  own,  had  never  interested  Mrs.  Duain 
particularly,  and  therefore  they  had  never 
been  allowed  to  know  her  except  as  an  imper 
sonal  and  delightful  acquaintance.  She  knew 
now  with  shrewd  intuition  that  through  her  cir 
cle  of  personal  friends,  Annita  Andrews  would 
learn  to  know  her  far  better  and  more  rapidly 
than  by  the  most  intimate  personal  relations. 
For  this  reason,  among  others,  she  would  not 
wholly  close  her  home  as  one  of  mourning.  Out 
side,  with  its  folded  shutters  and  storm-doors 
bowed,  the  house  wore  that  strangely  human 
look  of  sad  dignity  which  belongs  to  a  closed 
home  when  death  has  touched  the  lintel  ;  but 
within  life  went  on  almost  as  it  had  before  the 
coming  of  definite  news  of  loss.  It  had  been  a 
house  of  doubt  and  semi-mourning  for  months. 
Now  it  was  only  certainty  of  grief.  Friends 
came  and  went,  bringing  their  messages  of 
affection  and  sympathy,  and  all  were  received 
by  Mrs.  Duain,  and  to  all  she  presented  Annita 
Andrews  with  a  quiet  dignity  which  forbade 
questions,  and  yet  with  so  careful  recognition 
of  her  place  as  a  member  of  the  family  that 
16 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

her  manner  could  not  fail  to  make  its  due  im 
pression.  Very  evidently  what  the  girl  herself 
longed  for  was  to  be  let  alone  and  allowed  to 
look  on  in  silence  at  this  revealed  family  life, 
full  of  love  and  real  friendships — plainly  very 
different  from  anything  to  which  she  \vas  ac 
customed.  She  tried  always  to  sit  a  little 
apart,  rather  pale  and  with  puzzled  eyes,  look 
ing  out  from  over  her  clasped  hands,  which  she 
constantly  held  against  her  face,  hiding  lips 
that  seemed  to  Helen's  pitying  eyes  to  be  al 
ways  quivering  slightly.  But  this  remoteness 
and  silence  was  what  Mrs.  Duain  would  not 
allow.  No  one  could  have  doubted  her  adora 
tion  of  her  son,  but  an  unwholesome  mourn 
ing  in  her  house  by  herself  or  any  one  else  was 
what  she  would  not  tolerate.  She  talked  of 
her  son  constantly  and  to  every  one,  as  often 
with  laughter  as  with  tears ;  for  there  was 
much  in  Jack  Duain's  short  and  merry  life  to 
recall  with  laughter.  Helen  expostulated  with 
her  mother  in  vain.  To  the  younger  woman 
there  was  a  species  of  cruelty  in  the  constant 
rousing  of  Annita  from  her  dazed  and  dream 
like  condition,  in  the  forcing  her  to  meet  new 
friends  at  this  time.  But  Mrs.  Duain  had  de 
cided  otherwise. 

"  We  must  rouse  her,"  she  insisted.     "  Don't 
B  17 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

you  see  this  is  our  chance  to  reach  her  now, 
while  she  is  stirred?  It's  just  as  important  for 
us  to  know  her  as  for  her  to  know  us  ;  and  do 
you  know  her  at  all  ?  I  don't,  yet  half  our 
week  has  gone.  Hers  is  a  very  sealed  nature. 
No,  you  must  let  me  follow  my  own  instinct." 
But  despite  her  theories,  Mrs.  Duain  began 
to  yield  to  an  uncomfortable  wonder  if  they 
ever  could  know  Annita  Andrews  much  bet 
ter.  She  knew  that  some  women  were  born  to 
blow  open  wide  as  roses — she  herself  was  one 
of  these — while  others  were  born  to  live  tightly 
closed  as  button-flowers,  and  with  the  latter  she 
began  to  classify  Annita  Andrews.  There  was 
something  baffling,  something  inexpressibly 
trying,  to  her  in  the  very  docility  and  gentle 
ness  of  this  intimate  yet  stranger  guest.  Even 
the  meeting  -  ground  of  a  common  grief  had 
been  practically  closed  from  the  first,  for  each 
effort  to  draw  Annita  to  speech  concerning 
her  lover  caused  such  evident  suffering  that 
Mrs.  Duain  had  not  the  heart  to  persist  too 
far  in  that  direction.  Yet  something,  she  felt, 
must  be  done,  for  the  girl's  shyness  and  si 
lence  seemed  to  be  increasing  rather  than  de 
creasing,  and  the  week  of  her  promised  stay 
was  passing.  It  was  then  that  the  elder  wom 
an  decided  on  a  serious  step,  and  only  waited 
18 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

for  the  best  opportunity  to  take  it  safely.  That 
chance  seemed  to  her  to  open  most  fairly  on 
the  night  when  the  mourning-bonnets  came 
home — those  last  details  of  costume.  On  that 
evening  Mrs.  Duain,  more  full  of  thought  than 
she  showed,  walked  up  the  stairs  to  bed,  a  veil- 
draped  bonnet  in  either  hand,  and  another  on 
her  head.  Having  no  free  hand  with  which  to 
hold  her  skirts  away  from  her  feet,  she  walked 
up  the  stairs  with  extreme  difficulty,  escaping 
her  petticoats  only  by  stepping  in  a  pigeon- 
toed  way,  as  do  all  women  caught  in  like  case. 
She  was  laughing  like  a  girl  at  her  own  awk 
wardness,  but  seemed  to  be  enjoying  the  ex 
ercise,  for  she  refused  aid,  and  at  the  upper 
landing  turned  to  look  smilingly  down  on  the 
two  girls  following  her. 

"  I  did  it,"  she  said,  merrily.  "  And  look  up 
at  me,  girls  !  Isn't  this  Madame  Milliner  going 
to  bed?" 

Helen,  her  hand  still  on  the  balustrade, 
stopped,  and  laughing  naturally,  looked  up  at 
the  black  -  draped  figure ;  but  the  mother 
glanced  beyond  her  and  keenly  at  Annita.  As 
the  light  from  the  high  hall  lamp  fell  full  upon 
the  girl's  upraised  face,  Mrs.  Duain  thought  she 
found  there  a  fresher  look  and  a  less  forced 
smile  than  had  before  met  her  jesting  on  such 
19 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

subjects — appropriate  or  inappropriate,  as  one 
received  it.  Most  of  us  talk  of  our  weeds  and 
try  them  on  with  faces  in  accord  with  their 
coloring.  Mrs.  Duain  did  neither.  As  her 
eyes  now  met  Annita's,  the  girl's  lips  parted  in 
a  distinct  smile,  sweet  and  natural  and  shyly 
affectionate.  Her  brown  eyes  (so  pretty  in 
color,  but  monotonous  somehow  to  Mrs.  Duain, 
used  to  her  daughter's  vivid  face,  and  indeed 
to  her  own  changing  features  as  shown  in  her 
mirror)  were  shining  a  little.  The  light  hair, 
too,  seemed  to  lie  more  loosely,  and  therefore 
more  acceptably  to  the  older  woman,  who  in 
her  rich  ripeness  hated  sleekness  of  any  kind. 
They  had  passed  a  long  evening  alone  to 
gether  family  -  wise,  and  after  it  as  Annita 
stood  there  on  the  stair  she  seemed  more  one 
of  them.  There  was  a  subtle  loosening,  not  of 
the  hair  only,  but  of  her  whole  being.  Mrs. 
Duain  decided  quickly  that  the  hour  for  action 
had  at  last  come. 

"  We  don't  want  to  go  to  bed  yet,  do  we, 
Helen  ?"  she  said.  "  Come  in  here  with  us,  my 
dear  ;  let's  have  a  real  hair-brushing  talk.  I 
never  feel  that  I  know  a  woman  until  I  once 
brush  my  hair  with  her." 

"  But  ought  I  to  keep  you,  Mrs.  Duain  ? 
Look  at  the  clock." 

20 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

The  old  hall  timepiece  was  pointing  to  a  late 
hour,  yet  Annita's  hesitation  was  plainly  more 
wistful  than  real. 

"  Oh,  I  did  look  at  that  old  thing,  and  I 
looked  right  away  again,"  said  Mrs.  Duain, 
waving  both  time  and  the  reverend  clock  aside. 
"  I  don't  want  to  remember  how  late  it  is.  Go 
get  your  brushes  and  combs  and  wrapper  and 
slippers,  and  we  will  have  a  real  old-fashioned 
hair-brushing." 

But  with  all  her  perfectly  spontaneous  and 
almost  girlish  charm  of  manner,  Mrs.  Duain 
was  a  determined  woman  of  the  world,  with  an 
object  in  view  to  attain  and  a  resolute  will  to 
attain  it  within  the  hour.  She  was  not  think 
ing  seriously  of  clocks,  nor  of  dressing-gowns 
and  slippers,  and  she  showed  that  she  was  not 
when  Annita  returned  burdened  with  toilet 
articles. 

"  Come  here,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  Throw 
those  things  down  on  the  bed  and  come  here. 
Do  you  mind  trying  this  on  for  me  ?  I  don't 
seem  to  be  able  to  fit  it  on  my  own  head" — 
which  was  not  unnatural,  as  it  was  not  for 
her  head  that  Mrs.  Duain  had  ordered  the 
veiled  bonnet.  It  fitted  Annita  admirably,  as 
if  it  had  been  made  for  her  —  indeed  it  had 
been,  with  her  own  stolen  bonnet  as  model. 
21 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

"  And  now,"  went  on  Mrs.  Duain,  as  one  ab 
sorbed  in  her  subject,  "  will  you  mind  slipping 
this  on  ?" 

This  was  one  of  Helen's  gowns,  for  which 
Annita  had  once  stood  as  block,  the  girls' 
figures  being  sufficiently  alike  to  allow  this 
saving  of  Helen's  overtaxed  strength.  A  few 
moments  later  the  cheval-glass  reflected  An- 
nita's  figure  dressed  in  a  full  costume  of  per 
fectly  fitting  mourning,  at  which  Mrs.  Duain 
gazed  with  affectionate  approval,  half  sad,  half 
satisfied.  Helen  stood  by,  looking  on  with 
eyes  wherein  some  mischief  lurked.  Her  moth 
er's  careful  schemes  always  amused  the  daugh 
ter.  The  two  faces  were  reflected  in  the  glass, 
one  over  each  of  Annita's  shoulders,  and  as  she 
chanced  to  glance  from  one  to  the  other  she 
stared  for  a  moment,  started,  and  then  wheeled 
around  with  a  little  cry,  half  dismay,  half 
question. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  soothingly — 
"  my  dear,  why  shouldn't  you  ?  Did  you  sup 
pose  I  was  ordering  all  these  gowns  and  all 
these  bonnets  just  for  Helen  and  me  ?  Aren't 
you  my  daughter,  too?  Won't  you  be  one  of 
us,  dear  ?  We  were  a  little  family  of  three. 
Let  us  keep  that  number." 

But  Annita  had  sunk  down  on  the  side  of 
22 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

the  bed,  leaning  against  the  foot-board  for 
support,  her  eyes  dilating  and  fixed  on  Mrs. 
Duain,  who  went  on  with  an  unwonted  ner 
vousness  under  that  insistent  questioning  look. 
She  had  not  believed  those  light  brown  eyes 
capable  of  expressing  such  demand. 

"  I  think  it  really  best,  really  wisest,  Annita, 
as — as  you  have  already  stayed  with  us  this 
week.  Of  course  it  is  for  you  to  decide,  but  I 
think  it  far  wiser."  Annita  looked  down  at 
the  black  gown,  and  her  face  seemed  to  close 
with  a  seal.  Whether  she  wished  to  throw  the 
gown  off  or  not,  Mrs.  Duain  could  not  at  the 
moment  tell,  and  for  the  thousandth  time  she 
wished  the  girl's  face  were  more  flexible.  If  it 
had  been  Jack  or  Helen,  she  could  have  un 
erringly  read  their  inmost  feelings  in  a  mo 
ment.  "  Of  course  it  is  for  you  to  decide,"  she 
repeated. 

"  Is  it  left  for  me  to  decide  ?"  The  question, 
the  glance  that  went  with  it,  were  quick,  al 
most  stern,  and  Mrs.  Duain,  unaccustomed  to 
sternness  from  any  one,  was  too  surprised  to 
reply.  Annita  went  on  in  set  tones  :  "  I  heard 
you  tell  the  doctor  everything.  I  supposed 
you  had  to  tell  him,  but  have  you  told  any  one 
else?" 

Mrs.  Duain  actually  stammered  a  little  as 
23 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

she  tried  to  reply.  She  was  thinking  that  this 
was  not  in  the  least  what  she  had  expected  of 
the  passive  girl  she  had  been  watching  through 
the  week.  Whatever  else  she  lacked,  there  was 
plainly  no  shortage  of  courage.  When  cor 
nered  she  would  fight.  But  Mrs.  Duain  her 
self  was  a  brave  woman,  and  when  she  finally 
rose  to  the  occasion  it  was  to  face  fully  the 
consequences  of  her  acts. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  made  a  dreadful  mis 
take,"  she  said,  gravely.  "  My  dear  Annita,  I 
am  not,  and  I  never  have  been,  a  very  trust 
worthy  woman  in  keeping  a  secret.  I  don't 
mean  to  break  confidence,  but  I  know  I  do. 
Now  I  shall  have  to  ask  a  great  faith  of  you 
when  I  say  that  until  this  moment  I  honestly 
did  not  know  I  was  telling  your  secret.  I 
meant  to  gain  your  permission  first,  but  as  I 
sit  here  and  see  you  look  at  me  in  this  way, 
I  know  that  I  have  done  and  said  things  that 
were  just  the  same  as  speaking  outright.  I  am 
so  distressed  !  I  ask  your  forgiveness  most 
humbly.  I  am  ashamed  to  the  quick  ;  but  that 
doesn't  undo  anything." 

Helen's  daughterly  impulse  was  to  run  to 
her  mother  and  forcibly  stop  her  humiliating 
herself  before  Annita  Andrews.  And  yet,  ex 
cept  for  that  intense  gaze,  Annita  was  not  ac- 
24 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

cepting  the  confession  offensively.  She  seem 
ed,  in  fact,  to  be  scarcely  hearing  it.  She  was 
now  looking  down  and  stroking  the  folds  of 
crape  on  the  wrist  of  the  unfortunate  gown. 

"  Mrs.  Duain,"  she  said,  more  gently,  "  did  the 
woman  who  made  this  dress  know  ?" 

Mrs.  Duain  flushed.  "  I — I  am  afraid  so.  I 
should  have  said  '  No,  of  course  not,'  an  hour 
ago,  but  now — yes,  my  dear,  I  do  remember  in 
timating  that  you  might  be  the  one  to  wear  it." 

"Then  that  was  why  she  told  me  her  lover 
was  killed  in  the  war  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  miserably. 
"  I  suppose  she  thought  you  could  understand 
better  than  any  one  else.  She  didn't  mean  to 
be  impertinent,  I  am  sure." 

"  Oh  no.  I  didn't  think  so.  But  she  must 
have  thought  me  very  cold.  I  never  dreamed 
she  knew,  and  people  haven't  told  me  such 
things  as  a  rule."  She  paused  again  in  the 
same  absent  way,  stroking  the  crape.  "And 
my  aunt  ?"  she  asked,  finally,  with  another 
searching  glance. 

Mrs.  Duain  flushed  at  the  question.  Her  lip 
quivered.  She  was  not  used  to  being  cate 
chised,  but  she  still  answered  with  a  meekness 
that  flushed  her  daughter's  face  :  "  Yes,  my 
dear,  there  I  did  speak  almost  openly.  You 
25 


THE   SIXTH   SENSE 

must  have  known  I  would  have  to  give  her 
some  explanation  of  your  staying  here." 

"  Then,  I  suppose,  that  was  why  she  told  me 
all  about  losing  her  first  lover.  I  knew  my 
grandfather  sent  some  one  away  before  my 
uncle  came.  And  when  my  uncle  came  to  see 
me  he  told  me  all  about  his  first  wife's  death. 
I  wondered  why  at  the  time.  I  never  was  told 
these  things  before.  Do  you  suppose  it's  be 
cause  I  " — she  looked  up  questioningly — "  be 
cause  they  think  I'll  understand  now  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Duain,  eagerly — 
"  yes  ;  that's  one  of  the  compensations  for  let 
ting  others  know  of  our  sufferings.  Nobody 
wants  to  tell  anything  to  happy  young  things 
who  can't  really  understand.  You'll  find  all 
the  suffering  world  open  to  you  if  you  will  only 
let  it  know  that  you  have  suffered." 

Annita  sat  gazing  into  space.  Her  eyes  had 
lost  the  stern  look  that  questioned  Mrs.  Duain, 
and  seemed  to  be  ardently  questioning  all  life. 

"  As  I  think  of  it,  it  seems  to  me  everybody 
I  have  seen  this  week  has  told  me  something. 
Is  that  a  sign  they  all  knew  ?"  She  turned  her 
eyes  full  on  Mrs.  Duain  again.  "  Even  your 
friends,  people  I  never  knew  before,  have 
talked  with  me.  They  wouldn't  if  they  hadn't 
known  all.  I  feel  they  wouldn't.  Has  every 
26 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

one  who  came  near  me  been  told — every  one 
in  the  house,  even  the  servants?  Susan  told 
me  yesterday  she  was  soon  to  marry  the  coach 
man." 

"  Oh,  Annita,"  cried  Helen,  witli  deep  of 
fence,  "  how  can  you  berate  mamma  so  ?  I 
won't  allow  it.  If  she  has  done  wrong,  she's 
told  you  she's  sorry." 

"  Being  sorry  doesn't  put  the  wine  back  in 
the  bottle,  Helen,"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  her  voice 
quivering.  "  I  have  spilled  Annita's  secret, 
and  she  has  the  right  to  be  angry." 

Annita  started  as  if  waking  from  a  dream. 

"  Angry  !  But  I'm  not  angry."  Her  eyes 
filled  with  quick  tears  ;  her  face  flushed  dis 
tressfully  ;  she  spoke  hurriedly,  with  the  pain 
of  one  utterly  misunderstood.  "  Sometimes  I 
think  I  must  have  frozen  water  in  my  veins  in 
stead  of  blood.  I  can't  thaw  quickly.  I  don't 
know  how.  I  don't  know  what  to  say  now — 
only  —  I  do  know  I  want  to  wear  this  —  this 
dress,  if  you'll  both  let  me." 

The  last  words  came  suddenly  and  she  rose, 
trembling  with  excitement,  both  hands  appeal- 
ingly  out  -  stretched.  Her  changed  attitude, 
the  influence  of  the  accepted  mourning  garb 
that  draped  her  standing  figure,  the  timid  en 
treaty  of  her  hands  and  voice,  all  drew  Mrs. 
27 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

Duain  and  Helen  fluttering  to  her  with  an  en 
tirely  new  sense  of  womanly  relation.  The 
breath  of  a  strengthening  sentiment  blew  them 
together  as  the  little  whirlwinds  draw  up  feath 
ers  ;  and  like  soft  feathered  things,  and  with 
the  prettiest  nestlings,  the  two  women,  to 
whom  caresses  were  the  natural  expression  of 
feeling,  drew  near  the  one  they  were  teaching 
to  be  like  themselves.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Duain 
that  she  could  actually  feel  the  girl  changing 
and  softening  in  her  hands.  She  had  a  theory 
of  her  own  that  all  womankind  properly  be 
longed  to  the  dove-cote,  and  should  wear  their 
softness  outside ;  and  though  some,  by  a  mis 
chance,  might  come  to  wear  their  feathers  in 
side,  as  a  heavy  casing  confines  a  soft  pillow,  a 
little  slit  in  the  cover  or  a  hard  thrust  would 
invariably  discover  that  there  were  normal 
contents  enclosed.  Annita  had  received  both 
slits  and  thrusts  in  this  week,  and  the  last  expe 
rience  of  the  hour  had  been  a  hard  one.  While 
she  clung  to  them  with  a  shy  happiness  and 
timidly  gave  loving  touch  for  touch,  she  showed 
the  strain  she  had  suffered  in  the  pallor  that 
followed  her  excitement ;  and  Mrs.  Duain,  with 
tenderest  motherly  solicitude,  carried  her  off  to 
her  room  at  last,  not  leaving  her  until  she  had 
seen  her  laid  in  her  bed  with  her  weary  head 
28 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

on  the  pillow.  As  she  bent  over  the  girl  for  a 
last  kiss,  Annita  flung  her  arm  suddenly  around 
her  neck,  drawing  the  kind  face  down  to  hers. 
"  Oh,"  she  whispered,  softly,  "you  don't  know 
what  you  have  done  for  me.  I  only  began  to 
live  one  week  ago  to-day,  when  you  first  took 
me  in  your  arms." 

It  was  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  after  Get 
tysburg,  and  therefore  after  peace  was  declared, 
when  a  warm  summer  morning  found  Jack 
Duain,  as  one  risen  from  the  dead,  entering  his 
native  town.  He  walked  slowly  and  nervously 
down  the  well  -  known  platform,  waving  aside 
the  whips  of  the  same  old  drivers  he  had  left 
there  when  he  went  away  with  his  regiment. 
He  knew  every  one  of  them,  but  not  one  recog 
nized  him,  and,  a  little  dazed  at  their  blindness, 
he  walked,  still  as  if  disguised,  into  the  streets, 
with  feet  familiar  to  every  stone  that  had 
stubbed  his  bare  toes  when,  as  an  obstinate  and 
hardy  boy,  he  would  distress  his  mother  by 
running  barefooted  through  the  town.  There 
was  something  uncanny  to  him  in  the  way 
those  he  knew  as  he  knew  himself  looked  him 
over  carelessly  as  a  passing  stranger  ;  but  after 
the  first  shock  of  surprise  what  he  began  to 
dread  was  that  he  should  at  last  meet  some  one 
29 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

who  would  know  him  and  tell  him  news  that 
he  longed  for  yet  feared  to  learn.  When  at 
last  he  reached  his  own  house  his  courage 
failed  utterly  on  the  door-step,  and  he  turned 
off  without  ringing  the  bell,  but  only  to  make 
his  way  to  the  wicket-gate  that  closed  in  the 
garden  at  the  side  of  the  house.  Once  in  the 
garden,  he  slipped  from  bush  to  bush  as  cau 
tiously  as  when  he  and  Helen  had  played  hide- 
and  -  seek  there  together  as  children,  stealing 
from  behind  the  tulip-tree  to  the  snowball-bush, 
from  the  sweet -smelling  shrub -bush  to  the 
sweeter  magnolia  -  tree.  These  old  familiar 
odors  spoke  to  him  of  the  past,  and  the  old 
childish  haunts  pulled  at  his  heartstrings. 
Even  the  air,  kind  and  sunny,  seemed  the 
weather  he  best  remembered,  and  all  combined 
to  quicken  his  imagination  and  make  his  heart 
beat  with  foreboding.  Human  changes  might 
be  waiting  for  him  beyond  this  unaltered  nat 
ure  and  within  the  unchanged  stone  and  mor 
tar  of  the  old  house  that  rose  before  him.  Were 
strangers  in  the  home?  At  last  he  paused 
under  the  jutting  bay-window  of  the  low  room 
where  in  the  old  days  he  knew  his  mother  and 
Helen  would  have  been  sitting  at  this  hour. 
Here,  crouched  down  like  a  thief,  he  listened, 
holding  his  breath. 

30 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

"  My  dear,"  came  a  clear  rich  voice  floating 
out  from  the  open  window  above  him  into  the 
warm  air,  "  I  beg  of  you,  don't  open  that  um 
brella  in  the  house.  I'm  not  exactly  super 
stitious,  but  then — " 

"  Everybody  knows  it's  too  unlucky  to  open 
umbrellas  in  the  house,"  said  a  lighter,  because 
younger,  laughing  voice,  like  an  echo  of  the 
old  one. 

"  Open  the  umbrella  out  of  the  window,  An- 
nita,  and  mend  it  that  way." 

There  was  girlish  laughter  within,  and  then 
out  came  the  closed  umbrella  from  the  smilax- 
covered  window  -  frame.  A  woman's  white 
hand  followed,  pressing  the  catch  open  and 
shaking  and  unfurling  the  silk.  It  was  all  so 
foolish,  so  simple  and  homelike  and  sweet,  to 
the  hungry  ears  outside.  A  great  thanksgiv 
ing  swelled  in  Jack  Duain's  heart.  They  were 
not  gone,  not  dead,  nor  even  changed.  How 
often  had  he  been  warned  by  that  same  loved 
voice  as  to  the  unnecessary  recklessness  of 
opening  an  umbrella  in  the  house  !  It  was 
the  old  house,  the  old  habits,  the  dear  old 
superstitions.  He  had  come  back  from  the 
dead  to  find  them  all  unchanged — all  just  as 
he  left  them,  those  he  loved  and  those  who 
loved  him.  They  were  not  too  broken  either 
31 


THE    SIXTH   SENSE 

by  his  supposed  loss,  for  they  could  still  laugh 
and  jest  as  of  old.  For  this  last  he  had  no 
resentment.  He  was  in  a  moment  like  a 
boy  again,  and  moved  to  surprise  them  as  a 
thoughtless  boy  might.  He  rose  softly  to  his 
feet,  shielded  by  the  wide-open  umbrella.  The 
waving  ferrule  seemed  to  him  to  be  poking  at 
him  jocosely  as  the  mender  jerked  it  awkward 
ly  back  and  forth.  He  caught  it.  and  thrust 
ing  his  shield  above  his  head,  was  face  to  face 
with  Annita  Andrews. 

There  was  an  instant  outcry  in  the  room,  a 
rushing  to  and  fro,  a  tumultuous  excitement, 
but  the  mother's  voice  was  piercing  to  his  ears 
through  and  above  all.  The  appealing  cry  of 
a  child  on  the  mother's  ear  is  most  insisted 
upon,  but  there  is  a  mother's  cry  as  well,  and 
whether  he  was  dragged  into  the  room  or 
somehow  scrambled  in  to  where  he  might  fall 
at  his  mother's  feet  and  reach  the  mother's 
arms,  the  son  could  not  have  told.  He  only 
knew  that  he  was  there,  and  the  long  days  and 
suffering  nights  were  now  as  far  in  the  past 
as  all  troubles  had  seemed  when  as  a  child  he 
had  cried  out  in  the  dark  and  waked  to  feel 
those  same  warm  arms  about  him.  He  opened 
his  eyes  after  a  little  and  looked  up  to  laugh 
at  himself  and  at  her,  but  tenderly. 
32 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

"  Don't  look  down  on  me  like  that,  mammy 
dear;  I'm  all  right  now,  and  I  was  all  right 
weeks  ago,  only  I  was  afraid  to  come  home. 
I  didn't  know  what  I  might  find  here.  When 
I  stood  outside  there  and  heard  your  voices — 
well,  I  always  thought  they  were  sweet  voices, 
but  I  didn't  know  how  sweet.  Don't  you  want 
to  know  where  I've  been  and  what  I've  been 
doing  ?  I've  died  twice  since  I  saw  you,  mam 
my  dear." 

He  showed  it  all,  Mrs.  Duain  thought,  touch 
ing  his  face  with  gentle  finger-tips,  as  if  she 
scarcely  believed  it  real.  It  was  Helen  who 
listened  to  the  quick,  dramatic  account  of  the 
awakening  from  that  first  death  on  the  battle 
field,  the  chance  succor  by  the  enemy,  the  un 
conscious  days,  the  months  in  a  prison-hos 
pital,  the  half  -  recovery,  and  then  the  long, 
hopeless  days  of  prison  life  that  followed.  On 
these  last  he  would  not  dwell.  Through  all 
ran  the  strain  of  a  desperate,  unremitting 
effort  to  get  news  of  home,  to  send  home  news 
of  himself — efforts  which  they  knew  too  well 
had  all  miscarried.  Last  of  all,  half  due  to  the 
prison  life,  half  to  his  own  beating  at  the  bars, 
came  a  fever  that  seemed  to  kill  again.  Wak 
ing  to  life  for  the  second  time,  it  was  to  ask 
his  own  name,  and  as  memory  came  slowly 
c  33 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

back  he  learned  that  the  war  was  over,  peace 
declared,  and  he  himself,  though  free  to  go 
where  he  would,  had  been  only  a  troublesome 
prisoner  and  a  hospital  number  for  so  long  a 
space  of  time  that  after  these  troubled  days  a 
return  to  life  and  home  and  family  needed 
first  the  question  asked  and  answered,  Is  there 
home  and  family  left  to  receive  the  lost  one  ? 
This  question  he  had  come  himself  to  ask,  wait 
ing  beyond  the  time  when  his  bodily  strength 
was  sufficient,  because  he  dreaded  the  possible 
test  on  sick  brain  and  weakened  nerve  if  the 
answers  were  fatally  wrong.  All  this  Helen 
learned,  partly  with  tender  questioning,  partly 
by  listening  with  loving  interruptions  and  ex 
clamations  of  sympathy;  but  Mrs.  Duain  could 
only  listen  vaguely,  having  actual  brain-room 
for  no  more  than  this  joy  of  restitution.  Yet, 
being  above  all  a  practical  woman,  if  a  mother, 
she  began  gradually  to  grasp  the  wonderful 
fact  that  her  son  had  come  back  to  her,  even 
more,  not  less,  than  when  he  left.  By  the 
time  her  knees  had  ceased  to  tremble  under 
the  sweet  pressure  of  his  head,  her  keen  eyes 
had  noted  the  stronger  and  nobler  lines  of  the 
irregular  features,  the  firmer  fold  of  the  lips, 
and  the  quiet  strength  of  the  steady  hands 
that  had  been  so  restless  with  life.  He  was 
34 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

thin,  he  was  worn  and  weak,  but  the  vigorous 
life  was  all  there  yet — there  was  nothing  lost 
of  the  Jack  Duain  that  had  been,  and  much 
gained.  He  had  left  her  a  jocund  boyish  man, 
and  he  had  come  back  jocund  still,  she  hoped, 
but  with  a  developed  manhood.  Her  motherly 
pride  swelled  her  heart.  She  had  mourned 
him  bravely  as  a  hero  dying  for  his  country  ; 
there  was  a  stifling  joy  in  having  him  a  hero 
still,  yet  alive,  growing  into  this  ripe  manhood, 
and  more  than  ever  all  her  own.  Then  she 
was  suddenly  and  for  a  moment  sickeningly 
reminded  that  there  were  more  ways  of  losing 
a  son  than  those  supplied  by  battle  and  sudden 
death. 

"  Didn't  I  see  some  one  else  here  when  I 
broke  in  ?"  asked  Duain,  and  after  a  shock  of 
quick  recollection  and  a  little  struggle  with 
herself,  his  mother  stooped  and  kissed  him, 
whispering : 

"  How  selfish  I  have  been  !  But  I  could 
only  think  of  you  at  first.  She  must  have  run 
away.  Helen — " 

"Just  one  moment,  mamma,"  begged  the 
sister — "just  one  moment  more  all  to  our 
selves.  I  want  to  tell  Jack  something,  myself." 
She  was  standing  before  her  brother  with  her 
hands  clasped  tightly,  and  with  the  prettiest 
35 


air  of  embarrassment,  both  mother  and  brother 
thought. 

"Don't  you  remember,  when  you  thought 
you  were  dying  on  that  dreadful  field  and  you 
sent  us  that  dear  message  by  one  of  your 
comrades — Mr.  Griffin?" 

"  Griffin,  was  it  ?  I  didn't  remember  which 
one  I  sent." 

"  Well— well — "  Helen  halted,  plainly  dashed 
by  this  extraordinary  forgetfulness.  Mrs.  Du- 
ain  assisted  her,  smiling  : 

"  The  message  was  four  words  in  all,  wasn't 
it,  and  one  to  Helen  ?  It's  taken  Mr.  Griffin  a 
great  many  hours  to  deliver  Helen's  part  of  it 
to  her,  Jack.  Yes,  he's  taking  her  away  from 
us." 

"He's  doing  no  such  thing,  mamma.  He 
will  settle  here  ;  near  you  ;  he  said  so.  And, 
besides — 

"'A  son's  a  son  till  he  gets  him  a  wife; 
But  a  daughter's  a  daughter  all  the  days  of  her 
life.'" 

She  smiled  significantly  at  her  brother, 
whose  surprised  and  sincere  pleasure  in  her 
news  flushed  her  face  happily.  She  listened 
greedily  to  all  he  could  say  in  praise  of  the 
lover,  whom  he  now  vowed  he  had  sent  to  her 
36 


THE    SIXTH   SENSE 

for  no  other  purpose  than  the  one  he  had  ac 
complished. 

"  You  didn't !"  asserted  Helen.  "  You  said 
just  now  you'd  forgotten  whom  you  sent"; 
and  they  wrangled  over  the  matter  as  they 
had  always  laughingly  wrangled  together.  It 
was  all  so  natural,  all  music  to  Mrs.  Duain. 
She  could  have  listened  for  hours,  but  her 
conscience  was  now  awake,  and  her  duty  to 
another  pressed  upon  her. 

"  Helen,  you  are  not  being  kind,  dear,"  she 
said.  "  You,  of  all  people,  ought  to  remember 
that  some  one  wants  Jack  now,  and  Jack  must 
be  craving  the  sight  of  some  one  more  than  he 
wants  us." 

Jack  Duain  wheeled  round  from  his  sister's 
side,  facing  his  mother. 

"  What !"  he  exclaimed. 

Helen  shook  her  finger  at  him  with  a  little 
moue.  "  Oh,  you  needn't  pretend  any  longer ; 
and  as  I  told  you  my  secret,  I  do  think  it's 
mean  of  you — " 

"  Helen,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Duain,  "  go  and 
order  some  luncheon  for  your  brother.  He 
must  need  it." 

"  I  don't,"  said  the  son,  laughing.  "  But,  if 
you  want,  Helen  will  go  and  look  for  that 
white  horse  you  used  to  send  us  to  look  for 
37 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

when  you  wanted  to  talk  with  father.  Won't 
you,  Helen  ?  That's  what  mother  means.  How 
good  it  is  to  be  home  and  hear  all  the  old 
songs !" 

He  was  laughing,  and  so  was  Helen,  but 
Mrs.  Duain  could  only  force  a  smile.  She 
might  have  agreed  with  Helen  in  thinking 
Jack  only  desirous  of  concealing  his  love-affair 
from  them,  but  that  her  quick  ear  had  caught 
a  sincerity  of  surprise  in  his  hasty  exclamation. 
She  gave  an  earnest  signal  to  Helen,  who  left 
them,  at  once  sobered  by  the  gravity  of  her 
mother's  face.  Mrs.  Duain  joined  her  son  at 
the  window  towards  which  he  had  moved. 
He  was  looking  down  the  street  in  a  direction 
which  a  little  relieved  her  anxious  forebodings. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  one  finger  loosened  of  a 
hand  that  was  clutching  her  heart. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  softly,  almost  pleadingly, 
"  that  is  where  you  used  to  find  her.  But  now, 
dear,  she  is  here  more  than  there.  Don't  try 
to  keep  anything  back  from  me.  I  know  it  all 
— and  from  herself." 

She  looked  into  her  son's  face  as  he  turned 
it  to  her,  and  the  finger  that  had  loosened 
closed  down  again  and  tightened  on  her  heart. 
They  stood  gazing  at  each  other  until  the 
mounting  terror  in  her  mind  spoke  in  Mrs. 
38 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

Duain's  eyes  so  plainly  that  her  son  answer 
ed  it. 

"  Now  look  here,  mother ;  I'm  not  crazy.  I 
didn't  come  home,  and  I  wouldn't,  until  I  was 
sure  I  was  all  right,  after  the  fever.  But  there's 
something  all  wrong  here  somewhere.  I  pledge 
you  my  honor  I  haven't  the  least  idea  of  what 
you  are  talking  about ;  but  I  don't  think  you 
are  crazy  for  that  reason,  and  you  mustn't 
think  I  am." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  frank  eye  as  sane  as 
her  own.  Though  he  spoke  humorously,  the  new 
and  more  serious  strength  of  manhood  which 
she  had  recognized  in  his  face  was  in  his  manner, 
and  so  convincingly  that  Mrs.  Duain  put  her 
hands  to  her  head,  distrusting  her  own  senses. 

"  Then  who  is  crazy  ?"  she  said,  despairingly 
— "  you,  or  I,  or  Annita  Andrews  ?" 

"  Annita  Andrews  !"  repeated  Duain.  "An 
nita  Andrews  !"  There  was  now  not  so  much 
bewilderment  in  his  tone  as  indignation  at  the 
name  suggested.  "Why,  I  never  so  much  as 
looked  at  her  seriously.  She  never  interested 
me  in  the  slightest  degree." 

Mrs.  Duain  deliberately  turned  and  sat  down 

again  in  her  chair  before  she  could  reply.  There 

was  something  here  for  discussion  that  could 

not  be  entered  into  in  any  casual  way.     Her 

39 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

son  drew  nearer  to  her  and  laid  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder. 

"  What  is  it,  mother?"  he  said,  kindly.  "Why 
are  you  so  troubled  ?"  In  his  voice  and  touch 
Mrs.  Duain  felt  instantly  that  there  was  some 
thing  stronger  than  either  death  or  marriage 
which  might  again  take  her  son  from  her — his 
individuality.  Before  he  left  her  he  had  been 
charmingly  independent  of  all  but  herself, 
manly  and  original  to  a  fault,  but  the  last 
word  of  influence  had  always  lain  with  her. 
That,  she  now  knew,  was  over  forever.  He 
had  never  been  kind  to  her  before.  It  had 
been  his  to  be  devoted,  hers  to  be  kind.  As 
her  quick  brain  leaped  to  these  conclusions, 
she  knew  at  the  same  time  that,  whatever  fatal 
mistake  lay  behind  this  complication,  it  was 
too  late  for  her  to  give  up  the  girl  who  seemed 
to  be  its  victim. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?"  said  Duain,  again. 

And  then,  in  a  kind  of  despair,  she  opened 
her  lips  and  told  him  everything,  from  the  day 
of  Annita's  entrance  into  the  house  to  the  mo 
ment  when  he  saw  her  under  the  umbrella  at 
the  window.  As  the  threads  of  the  story  reel 
ed  off,  Duain  listened  at  first  with  evident  as 
tonishment,  then  more  and  more  blankly.  At 
last  he  rose,  brushing  his  hands  across  his  face 
40 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

as  if  wiping  away  cobwebs  of  belief  that  clung 
despite  him. 

"Wearing  mourning  for  me  !  Living  as  my 
widow  !  Upon  my  word,  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing  in  my  life  !  Don't  tell'  me  any  more, 
mother.  I  shall  begin  to  believe  in  it  all  my 
self.  It's  the  most  curious  sensation  !  My 
widow!  Can  she  be  deranged?" 

"  No,  she  is  not.  None  of  us  is  deranged," 
said  Mrs.  Duain.  A  theory  was  forming  in 
her  own  mind,  which  she  was  not  yet  prepared 
to  advance,  but  every  moment  she  believed  in 
it  the  more.  "There  is  a  horrible  mistake 
somewhere.  What  can  you  do  ?" 

"  Do  !  There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  that 
I  can  see.  It's  a  most  terrible  complication, 
and  the  publicity  makes  it  doubly  hard  to  deal 
with.  Of  course  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  make  it 
easy  for  her ;  but,  after  all,  the  mistake — if  we 
choose  to  call  it  so — has  been  entirely  hers.  I 
think  the  undoing  ought  to  be  hers  also,  don't 
you  ?  What  could  have  been  her  motive  ?" 

Mrs.  Duain's  reply  was  indirect :  "  Then  you 
wouldn't  consider  letting  things  stand  as  they 
are  ?"  Her  tone  was  wistful. 

"  Marry  her  !  Why,  my  dear  mother — " 
Duain  checked  his  amazement  at  the  sugges 
tion,  evidently  preposterous  to  him,  and  went 
41 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

on  more  quietly,  half  smiling  :  "  I  confess  that 
solution  had  not  for  an  instant  occurred  to  me. 
The  affair  is  befuddling  enough  for  a  man  of 
any  imagination,  but  I  never  cared  anything 
for  the  girl.  Until  now  I  never  had  any  rea 
son  whatever  to  think  she  cared  for  me."  He 
blushed  as  he  spoke,  then  laughed  at  himself. 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  I  should  blush  over 
it.  Annita  Andrews  was  not  the  kind  of  girl 
to  stir  my  blood,  as  I  remember  her ;  but,  as  I 
say,  it's  a  befuddling  affair." 

"  She  has  changed  very  much,"  said  Mrs. 
Duain,  quickly.  "And  you  didn't  dislike  her 
before.  You  visited  there  constantly." 

"As  every  one  visits  everywhere  constantly 
in  a  little  place  like  this.  But  none  of  us  were 
ever  in  love  with  Annita  Andrews.  You  know 
that." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  have  been," 
Mrs.  Duain  replied,  warmly. 

"  Neither  do  I.  But  none  of  us  ever  were. 
I  don't  believe  she  ever  had  a  lover.  For  my 
self,  I  never  cared  to  be  with  any  girl  in  my 
salad  days  (they  seem  years  back),  unless  I  was 
sure  several  other  men  wanted  to  get  her  away 
from  me.  I  don't  think  I  was  a  very  nice  boy. 
And  there  was  nothing  of  the  siren  about  An 
nita  Andrews.  That  at  once  prevented  her  be- 
42 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

ing  my  type  of  woman.  Why,  mother,  you  know 
the  girl  was  dry  and  silent  as — not  a  mouse : 
mousy  women  have  their  attraction — she  was 
more  like  an  oyster.  She  w^s  monotonous  in 
her  very  good  looks." 

"  She's  more  than  good-looking.  She  has  a 
lovely  face." 

"  Oh  no,  she  hasn't,  mother  dear ;  you  are 
looking  at  her  now  with  your  own  reflection 
thrown  on  her.  She  never  had  a  lovely  face 
at  all.  It  was  a  handsome  and  totally  blank 
countenance,  and  that's  all.  I've  stood  on  her 
door-step  time  and  again  bored  to  death  at  the 
thought  that  I  knew  just  how  pretty  she  was 
going  to  be  when  I  got  in.  There's  no  variety 
about  her.  I  don't  mind  a  woman  being  down 
right  ugly,  if  only  she'll  look  handsome  at  times. 
There's  some  excitement  about  her  then.  You 
can  stand  on  the  door-step  and  wonder  whether 
she's  to  look  a  fright  or  a  brilliant  beauty. 
There  are  girls  like  that." 

"  I  shouldn't  say  your  salad  days  were  en 
tirely  over,"  said  Mrs.  Duain,  dryly.  "  You've 
been  dropping  very  naturally  into  the  present 
tense." 

Duain  laughed. 

"Well,  all  the  old  blood  didn't  run  out  on 
the  field,  I  suppose.  I  thought  it  had.  But, 
43 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

you  know  yourself,  if  a  girl  has  the  looks  and 
the  position  in  life  that  Annita  Andrews  had, 
and  still  never  a  lover,  there  must  be  some 
thing  extremely  wrong  with  her." 

"  No,  there  is  nothing  wrong  with  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Duain,  rising  to  the  challenge.  "  She  was 
wrong  without  something,  I'll  admit.  But, 
Jack,  though  you  may  not  believe  me  until 
you  see  her  again,  she's  gained  that  —  that 
something — whatever  it  was  that  you  missed. 
How  do  you  remember  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well  indeed — as  a  girl  who  ought 
to  have  been  extremely  beautiful  and  charm 
ing,  and  who  wasn't  either  in  the  slightest  de 
gree.  She  missed  both  by  an  inch,  for  some 
queer  reason.  She  reminded  me  of  an  Indian 
baby,  somehow.  I  always  believed  she  could 
swim  if  anybody  would  throw  her  into  the  wa 
ter  ;  but  nobody  wanted  to  take  that  trouble." 

Mrs.  Duain's  eyes  shone  ;  she  leaned  forward 
in  her  chair. 

"  That's  just  what  has  happened.  She  has 
been  thrown  into  the  water,  and  she  can  swim 
now.  You  call  it  swimming  ;  I  call  it  gaining 
the  sixth  sense.  Annita  has  been  here  con 
stantly  with  us,  and  I  have  introduced  her  into 
the  heart  of  our  own  little  circle  of  friends. 
You  know  what  they  are — very  different  from 
44 


THE   SIXTH   SENSE 

anything  she  was  accustomed  to,  and  calcu 
lated  to  develop  any  girl.  She  has  been  a  great 
favorite  with  them,  very  much  admired,  and 
brought  out  of  herself.  I  can  see  all  the  time 
that  she  grows  more  and  more  attractive ;  and 
not  to  men  only." 

"  Men !"  repeated  Duain,  with  a  laugh.  "  Then 
my  widow  is  not  inconsolable." 

"  She  has  been  carefulness  itself,"  corrected 
Mrs.  Duain,  instantly.  "  I  never  saw  any  young 
woman  in  her  position  more  delicate  or  show 
ing  more  feeling." 

Duain  looked  at  his  mother,  half  laughing, 
half  horrified. 

"  Mother  !  You  are  speaking  exactly  as  if 
she  had  a  real  position  to  maintain  and  be 
careful  of.  Has  the  girl  bewitched  you?  What 
do  you  expect  me  to  do  ?  How  can  I  possibly 
think  anything  of  the  delicacy  of  a  woman  who 
comes  to  my  mother  and  pretends  I  am  en 
gaged  to  her  after  I  am  supposed  to  be  inca 
pable  of  contradicting  the  story?  I  let  you 
run  on  because  I  could  hardly  collect  my  own 
senses  before  this  and  think  it  all  over.  But 
I  must  tell  you  now,  nothing  would  induce  me 
to  marry  any  woman,  no  matter  what  endear 
ing  qualities  she  has  since  shown,  who  could 
have  once  had  the  amazing  effrontery  to  claim 
45 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

me  as  her  promised  husband,  when  I  never 
promised  her  anything  of  the  kind.  I  can  sol 
emnly  swear  to  you  that  there  was  never  any 
engagement  whatever  between  Annita  Andrews 
and  me,  and  I  think  I  can  safely  add  that  there 
never  will  be." 

But  Mrs.  Duain  shook  her  head  slightly,  as 
one  not  utterly  convinced. 

"  I  have  seen  the  girl  day  in  and  day  out  for 
more  than  a  year  now,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  and 
I  have  never  discovered  this  indelicacy  and 
effrontery  you  talk  about.  She  has  matured 
and  ripened  into  lovely  womanhood,  and  she 
has  endeared  herself  to  me — endeared  herself 
very  tenderly,  Jack — and  I  tell  you  plainly  it 
hurts  me  and  makes  me  indignant  to  hear  you 
speak  of  her  in  this  way,  exactly  as  it  would  to 
hear  one  of  my  own  children  falsely  accused. 
As  you  say  yourself,  you  were  not  a  very  nice 
boy.  I  never  thought  you  were,  in  those 
matters,  and  if  you  remember,  I  often  told  you 
so.  And  it's  all  very  easy  for  you  now  to 
speak  of  yourself  as  a  boy  when  you  went 
away ;  but  you  weren't  a  boy.  You  were,  or 
ought  to  have  been,  as  much  a  man  in  a  re 
sponsible  sense  as  you  are  to-day,  though  you 
were  not  the  fine,  developed,  self-contained 
man  I  see  in  you  now." 
46 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

The  mother's  pride  rose  above  all  other  and 
newer  ties,  and  perhaps  her  courage  failed  a 
little.  "  Oh,  my  dear,  I  am  so  proud  of  you  ; 
so  proud  of  your  courage,  your  sufferings,  and 
the  way  you  have  risen  upon  them  to  be  what 
you  are  !" 

"  I  am  a  very  unhappy  man  at  the  present  mo 
ment,  mother,"  said  Duain,  gravely.  "Won't 
you  go  on  and  tell  me  what  you  mean  when 
you  say  I  was  not  a  nice  boy  ?" 

"Those  were  your  own  words,"  said  Mrs. 
Duain,  evasively. 

"They  sounded  stronger  in  my  mother's 
mouth.  I  know  you  can't  think  me  capable  of 
having  been  engaged  to  Annita  Andrews  and 
now  denying  it  to  you,  but  you  must  be  think 
ing  something  not  very  different,  unless  I  en 
tirely  misunderstand  you." 

"  I  never  said  she  spoke  to  me  of  a  formal 
engagement,"  replied  Mrs.  Duain,  half  reluc 
tantly.  "  I  said  she  confessed  to  me  that  you 
had  told  her  you  loved  her,  and  that  she  loved 
you." 

She  bent  her  eyes  on  her  son's  face ;  but  it 
was  not  her  questioning  gaze  alone  that  sent 
the  blood  flying  up  over  his  forehead.  After 
that  first  flush  and  the  start  that  accompanied 
it,  Duain  sat  quiet,  with  knitted  brows,  think- 
47 


ing  deeply,  and  evidently  self  -  questioning. 
He  turned  a  grave  face  to  Mrs.  Duain  at  last, 
and  met  her  still  questioning  gaze  with  a  shake 
of  his  head  and  a  worried  shrug  of  the  shoul 
ders. 

"  You  are  entirely  right,  mother.  If  I 
were  on  the  witness-stand  to-morrow  I  could 
not  possibly  swear  that  I  never  told  Annita 
Andrews  I  loved  her ;  and  the  fact  that  I 
couldn't  swear  I  hadn't  said  it  as  amorously 
to  every  other  woman  with  whom  I  spent  a 
considerable  time  wouldn't  help  me,  I  suppose. 
When  a  man's  saying  good-bye  and  thinking 
he  may  never  come  back,  he  says  a  great  deal 
he  would  never  say  under  any  other  less  melt 
ing  and  irresponsible  conditions.  Not  that  I 
mean  to  excuse  myself.  Do  you  suppose  she 
could  have  been  so  innocent  as  to  take  some 
such  foolish  trifling  in  earnest  ?" 

He  was  speaking  whimsically,  but  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  his  sincerity  ;  and  when 
he  added,  "  Of  course  if  that  has  been  the  case, 
there  is  but  one  course  open  to  me,"  Mrs.  Du- 
ain's  courage  suddenly  and  wholly  failed  her. 

Her  son  was  her  son,  after  all,  and  there  is 
nothing  the  natural  mother  craves  more  for 
her  children  than  that  they  shall  have  what 
ever  they  want. 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

"We  know  Annita  never  had  any  serious 
lovers  to  teach  her  what  serious  love-making 
was,"  she  said,  "  and  we  know  you  generally  do 
pretty  thoroughly  whatever  you  do  at  all.  But 
I  don't  really  see  that  we  are  called  upon  to 
totally  sacrifice  you  to  Annita  Andrews's  igno 
rance  of  the  amenities  that  pass  between  young 
men  and  maidens." 

Jack  Duain  sat  looking  at  his  mother  with 
amused  eyes.  She  reddened  under  his  look. 

"Amenities  is  a  neat  word,"  he  said.  "No, 
mother  mine,  it  won't  do.  You  know  as  well 
as  I  all  that  rings  with  hollow  sophistries.  You 
could  hardly  get  through  it.  If  I  said  enough 
to  an  innocent  girl  to  let  her  think  of  herself 
as  my  widow  all  this  time,  she  ought  to  have 
the  fair  chance  of  being  my  widow  in  earnest. 
If  she's  grown  as  attractive  as  you  say,  I  sup 
pose  I  can  stand  it ;  and  it  isn't  as  if  I  cared 
for  any  one  else — that  I  can  have." 

Mrs.  Duain  sank  slowly  back  in  her  chair, 
her  face  growing  white.  Her  eyes  were  full 
of  a  frightened  consternation,  and  her  lips  set 
in  a  distressed  curve.  Her  son  looked  at  her 
and  smiled. 

"  Did  you  think  getting  new  wounds  was  a 
sure  cure  for  old  ones,  mother  ?" 

"  I  thought,"  stammered  the  unhappy  moth- 
D  49 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

er — "  I  thought —  Oh,  Jack  !  I  don't  know  what 
I  was  about  to  say  I  thought.  I  only  wanted 
to  gain  time.  This  is  all  growing  too  tragic. 
I  had  forgotten  all  about  her.  I  ought  to  tell 
you  she  is  free  again.  Her  husband  died  not 
long  after  you  left  us." 

Jack  Duain's  face  had  turned  suddenly  as 
white  as  his  mother's.  He  rose  quickly  and 
walked  away  from  her  to  the  window,  where 
he  stood  looking  out.  His  mother  watched 
him  miserably.  When  he  came  back  to  her 
she  tried  to  read  his  face,  but  his  quieted  ex 
pression  and  manner  were  impenetrable. 

"You  never  liked  her,  mother,"  he  said, 
calmly — "  chiefly  because  she  had  the  shocking 
taste  to  prefer  a  better  man  to  me,  I  think.  I 
fancy  her  choice  justified  itself.  But  all  this 
is  apart  just  now.  We  won't  speak  of  it  again. 
I  must  find  out,  if  I  can,  how  much  I  am  re 
sponsible  for  Annita  Andrews's  position,  and 
pay  what  I  owe  her.  That's  task  enough  for 
the  time.  I  can't  arouse  her  suspicions  and — " 
He  laughed  as  if  he  could  not  help  himself,  not 
because  he  was  amused. 

"  How  on  earth  am  I  to  meet  her  ?  If  I  re 
membered  how  I  parted  with  her  it  would  be 
easier,  wouldn't  it  ?  But  there  were  so  many 
partings,  variously  harrowing.  I  am  afraid 
So 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

you  and  I  were  right,  mother  :  I  was  not  a 
nice  boy.  Isn't  this  a  commentary  on  me  as  I 
was,  and  a  lesson  for  the  bachelor  future,  if  I 
am  to  have  one?  Now,  mammy,  cheer  up. 
You  can't  look  tragics  into 'this,  or  dignify  my 
end  of  it.  You  have  a  sense  of  humor,  even  if 
you  are  my  mother.  On  my  side  it's  only 
utterly  ridiculous.  And  I  am  certainly  de 
serving  any  suffering  or  deprivations  I  may 
get  out  of  it.  Any  and  all — I  am  not  except 
ing  anything." 

He  spoke  the  last  word  significantly,  and 
Mrs.  Duain  understood  him. 

"  And  then  remember,"  he  added,  "  I  don't 
intend  to  accept  any  consequences  that  I 
didn't  bring  on  myself.  I  shall  test  that  fact 
somehow,  and  very  thoroughly.  I  don't  know 
how — but  I  shall  do  it.  It  seems  to  me  now 
that  I  am  not  playing  the  very  ardent  lover. 
Didn't  you  say  Miss  Andrews  was  in  the 
house  ?" 

Mrs.  Duain  rose  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  and  prepare  Annita 
for  something — I  don't  know  what,"  she  said, 
with  a  tearful  laugh.  "  Oh,  Jack,  isn't  all  this 
dreadful?  You've  just  come  back  to  me,  and 
we've  done  nothing  but  talk  of  some  one  else." 

Then  they  laid  their  necessarily  imperfect 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

plans.  Mrs.  Duain  was  to  find  Annita,  and  in 
half  an  hour  send  her  to  Jack,  who  would  wait 
for  her  where  he  was,  alone,  and  thinking  out 
his  best  course  of  action. 

"  Go  say  your  prayers  for  me,  mammy,"  said 
Jack,  opening  the  door  for  her.  "  Gettysburg 
was  play  to  this." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  pray  for,"  returned 
Mrs.  Duain  from  the  doorway,  with  that  touch 
of  naive  humor  which  nothing  could  quite  sub 
due.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  want  for  you  or 
anybody  else,  now.  I  am  so  confused." 

And  then  she  left  him  alone. 

Confused !  If  she  was  confused,  it  was 
nothing  to  his  mental  state,  her  son  thought, 
as  he  tried  to  decide  what  line  of  action  he 
should  take.  Half  an  hour  became  as  a  thin 
thread  of  time  between  him  and  the  necessity 
for  a  decision.  In  a  kind  of  nervous  despair 
he  resolved  that  he  would  best  economize  mo 
ments  by  considering  one  possibility  at  a  time, 
and  the  first  episode  must  be,  of  course,  the 
meeting.  How  was  he  to  meet  her? 

A  door  at  the  distant  end  of  the  room 
opened,  the  curtain  before  it  lifted,  and  there 
under  the  lifted  curtain  stood  Annita  Andrews 
looking  in  at  him. 

Duain's  first  thoughts,  passing  like  lightning 
52 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

in  his  brain,  were  as  purposeless  and  weak  as 
our  impulsive  thoughts  are  humiliatingly  prone 
to  be.  Yes,  it  was  just  as  he  had  said.  She 
stood  there  looking  as  handsome  as  he  had 
known  she  must  look,  impassive  as  she  always 
had  looked,  and  the  half-hour  which  he  was  to 
have  had  was  unfairly  denied  to  him. 

Whether  he  or  she  moved  first  he  did  not 
know.  He  only  knew  that  the  curtain  fell  at 
last  over  the  door,  closing  them  in  together ; 
that  they  met  near  the  centre  of  the  room, 
and  he  was  holding  her  hand  as  an  acquaint 
ance  might  —  as  he  then  felt  morally  assured 
he  must  have  held  it  in  their  parting  —  no 
more,  no  less.  Something  outside  of  himself 
checked  him  from  going  further,  and  as  she 
spoke  he  knew  it  was  she  that  held  him  back, 
not  his  own  indecision. 

"  Then  you  don't  know  ?  They  have  not 
told  you  ?" 

Her  eyes,  with  a  quick  glance,  had  questioned 
his  face  before  she  spoke,  and  she  was  already 
breathing  deeply,  as  if  with  relief,  before  his 
slow  reply  came  in  words. 

"Told  me  what?"  asked  Duain,  with  that 
curious  reluctance  of  an  honorable  man  to  tell 
in  exact  words  the  lie  which  he  is  fully  pre 
pared  to  act  to  the  limit.  She  seemed  to  ac- 
53 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

cept  this  question  as  denial,  as  he  meant  she 
should. 

"Then  I  have  the  chance  to  tell  you  myself 
first — and  explain — no,  I  can't  ever  hope  to  ex 
plain  it." 

She  was  trembling  so  violently  that  common 
humanity  alone  might  have  moved  him  to  sup 
port  her  with  his  arm,  but  he  could  only  stand 
motionless  and  silent,  waiting  for  her  to  speak 
further.  Her  hand  still  rested  in  his,  but  he 
knew  that  she  left  it  there  for  needed  support, 
and  for  no  other  reason.  He  felt  himself  brutal 
ly  judicial,  thus  waiting  for  her  defence.  Yet 
there  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do.  As  her 
attitude  seemed  to  ask  physical  support  of  him, 
that  he  gave  her,  strongly  and  kindly,  as  his 
nature  would  have  prompted  him  to  give  it  to 
any  woman.  He  even  shifted  his  arm  a  little, 
so  that  her  weight  hung  upon  his  hand  more 
heavily,  and  he  saw  that  she  felt  the  kindly 
motion,  for  her  face  flushed  hotly. 

"  Don't  be  kind,"  she  cried,  sharply  ;  "  you 
don't  know  what  I  have  done."  Her  voice 
broke  off  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  say  more  ; 
but  after  an  effort  she  went  on,  in  low,  rapid 
tones,  which  he  had  to  bend  his  head  to  hear. 
"  First — may  I  see  you  alone,  quite  alone,  for  a 
few  moments  ?  I  have  been  hiding  in  there,  in 
54 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

the  next  room,  like  the  thief  I  am.  I  hoped 
you  would  all  forget  me.  I  crept  in  here  to 
see  you  as  soon  as  I  heard  them  both  go.  Can 
you  spare  me  ten  minutes  now — and  alone?" 
She  glanced  back  again  at  the  door  of  the  room, 
as  if  dreading  interruption. 

"  We  are  quite  alone,"  said  Duain,  gravely. 
"  No  one  will  interrupt  us.  What  have  you  to 
say  to  me  ?" 

He  saw  her  lips  move,  but  not  a  word  came. 
Her  face  flushed  from  brow  to  chin  ;  her  eye 
lids  lay  heavily  over  her  eyes.  Duain  had  not 
seen  her  eyes  fairly  since  she  entered  the  room. 
He  looked  now  at  the  curved  lashes  lying  on 
her  flushed  cheeks,  and  wondered  how  it  was 
possible  that  overwhelming  shame  could  so  find 
expression  in  two  slender  lines.  Her  eyelids 
fluttered  painfully,  as  if  trying  vainly  to  rise. 
The  words  came  at  last  with  a  quick  rush  ;  but 
they  came,  and  the  courage  of  the  effort,  the 
set  will  behind  it,  appealed  powerfully  to  the 
young  soldier.  He  remembered  Gettysburg 
again,  and  thought  this  girl's  white  face  might 
have  been  that  of  some  stripling  near  him  in 
the  last  forlorn  charge.  That  silent  appeal  to 
his  own  soldierly  instincts  was  the  plea  best 
fitted  to  soften  Duain  as  a  judge. 

"  I — I  am  wearing  this  mourning  I  have  on 
55 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

for  you — and — I  have  been  letting  every  one 
think  that  you  were  my — my  lover — you  who 
never  spoke  a  word  of  love  to  me  in  my  life  ?" 
As  she  ended  she  drew  away  from  him,  as 
if  a  spasm  of  self -scorn  gave  her  strength; 
but  still  she  could  not  face  him  ;  her  face  was 
buried  in  her  shaking  hands.  Duain  stood  near 
her,  as  confused  in  mind  as  before  her  entrance. 
His  position,  though  entirely  different,  was 
scarcely  less  intolerable.  He  felt,  and  grate 
fully,  that  a  great  weight  was  shifted  from  him. 
He  had  thought  a  delicate  and  difficult  task, 
an  almost  impossible  test  of  a  woman  and  of 
himself,  lay  before  him,  and  now  he  saw  that 
none  of  all  this  was  to  be.  He  was  fully  ex 
onerated.  He  had,  after  all,  done  nothing 
whatever  to  be  ashamed  of ;  but  this  shame  un 
der  which  another,  and  that  a  woman,  cringed 
before  him  was  almost  as  distressing  to  his 
generous  nature.  He  was  helpless  to  aid  her. 
How  could  he,  of  all  men,  speak  to  her?  What 
could  he  say  ?  The  burden  he  had  lost  was  on 
the  proper,  if  the  weaker,  shoulders,  yet  he 
somehow  felt  that  he  himself  must  have  im 
posed  it  there.  Now  that  he  was  in  no  way 
bound,  he  could  afford  to  be  generous,  and 
surely  there  was  nothing  to  hate  or  turn  from 
in  this  stricken  figure  of  humiliation  hiding  an 
56 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

ashamed  woman's  face  from  him.  After  all, 
she  was  a  woman,  and  had  proved  herself  a 
brave  woman  ;  both  facts  meant  much  to  Jack 
Duain.  He  forgot  his  own  wrongs  in  his  pity. 
That  they  had  played  together  as  children 
added  its  argument  of  mercy,  and  moved  out 
side  of  personal  feeling  he  did  what  was  prob 
ably  the  only  possible  thing  to  do  under  the 
circumstances.  With  one  step  he  moved  back 
from  the  awkward  present  to  the  past,  to  the 
simple  manner,  even  the  name,  of  their  child 
ish  days  of  play  together. 

"  Now  don't  be  foolish,  Annita,"  he  said, 
practically;  "you  never  used  to  be  a  crying 
girl.  Come,  dry  your  eyes,  and  let's  talk  it  all 
over.  Upon  my  honor,  I  can't  see  what  it's  all 
about,  or  how  any  of  it  happened  ;  but  I  know 
you  can  explain  at  least  some  of  it.  You  must 
know  I  want  to  help  you — for  old  sake's  sake 
if  nothing  else."  He  drew  nearer,  and  taking 
her  hands  as  he  might  have  taken  Helen's, 
forced  them  gently  from  her  face.  "What 
have  you  been  up  to  ?"  he  asked,  kindly  and 
quizzically.  "  I  never  have  thought  of  you  be 
fore  as  a  tricky  girl."  He  looked  down  at  her, 
smiling,  and  went  yet  a  step  further.  "  Not 
that  you  weren't  perfectly  welcome  to  use  me 
as  you  pleased,  alive  or  dead  ;  but  why  am  I 
57 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

claimed  when  dead  and  so  vigorously  repudi 
ated  when  alive?  That's  what  rather  offends 
me." 

Then  she  looked  up  at  him,  but  only  as  one 
too  desperately  degraded  to  hide  longer.  The 
acute  suffering  that  pinched  her  features  made 
Duain  catch  his  breath  and  glance  at  her  again, 
as  the  eye  is  sometimes  caught  by  a  look  of  suf 
fering  on  a  strange  face  held  for  a  moment  eye 
to  eye  in  the  accidental  press  of  a  crowded 
street.  Annita  had  been,  in  spirit  at  least, 
little  more  than  a  stranger  to  him  in  the  casual 
intimacy  of  their  young  past.  She  seemed  to 
recognize  his  impulsive  sympathy  in  his  glance, 
and  it  braced  her  to  self-control. 

"  I  was  not  crying,"  she  said,  with  a  set  quiet. 
"  When  a  woman  is  ashamed  as  I  am  she  doesn't 
cry.  This  is  all  very  good  of  you,  Jack,  very 
kind  and  very  like  you,  but — no,  you  can't  help 
me.  Nobody  can.  I  have  done  a  terrible  thing, 
and  I've  got  to  suffer  for  it  all  the  rest  of  my 
life.  I  don't  want  to  shirk  my  punishment,  but 
I  do  want  you  to  know  how  strong  the  tempta 
tion  was,  and  that  I  never,  of  course,  never  for 
a  moment,  dreamed  my  fraud  could  involve 
you.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  could 
possibly  be  alive." 

Duain  broke  in,  half  laughing,  half  expostu- 
58 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

lating  :  "  Are  you  sorry  I  am,  then  ?  Was  that 
what  you  were  thinking  of  an  old  friend  as  you 
looked  out  at  me  under  that  umbrella?  Why, 
Annita,  this  is  little  less  than  brutal." 

Her  eyes  lifted  reflectingly,  and  he  saw  them 
fully  for  the  first  time  since  their  meeting,  and 
saw,  too,  that  he  had  made  one  mistake.  Either 
she  had  never  been  so  near  to  him  in  the  past, 
or  she  had  changed  from  what  he  remembered, 
in  one  respect  at  least.  When  she  looked  up, 
the  whole  face  was  lighted  by  her  eyes.  They 
were  serious,  thoughtful  eyes,  deeper  and  dark 
er  than  he  had  recollected  them,  and  extreme 
ly  beautiful.  They  looked  fully,  yet  as  if  un- 
seeingly,  into  his  as  she  replied,  with  that  direct 
truth  which  comes  sometimes  with  distress  : 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  I  hardly  realize  that 
you  are  really  alive.  I  keep  thinking  of  you 
as  I  have  for  the  past  year.  You  seem  two 
people  to  me,  one  dead  and  one  alive." 

There  was  the  possibility  of  a  confession  in 
her  words,  and  Duain  was  but  human.  What 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  this  mystery  he  had  not 
yet  fathomed,  and  a  not  illegitimate  curiosity 
awoke,  urging  him  on. 

"  How  have  you  been  thinking  of  me  for  the 
past  year,  Annita  ?"  he  asked,  and  then  some 
thing  of  softness  in  his  own  tone  made  him 
59 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

flush  uncomfortably  and  filled  him  with  dis 
may.  As  she  saw  his  color  rise,  hers  flooded 
her  face  in  a  blush  of  womanly  resentment,  so 
different  from  the  flush  of  self-scorn  he  had 
seen  there  when  they  first  met  that  Duain 
cried  out,  aloud,  in  self-abasement : 

"  No,  no — don't  think  that.  I'm  not  a  con 
ceited  ass.  I  never  thought  you — that  you  cared 
for  me  at  all."  And  yet  he  knew  that  he  had 
been  thinking  something  not  very  different. 

"You  mustn't  apologize  for  anything,"  she 
said,  with  the  dignity  of  real  humility.  "  You 
have  a  right  to  think  anything  of  me,  but  that 
one  thing  wouldn't  be  true.  No,  I  never  cared 
in  the  least  for  you  in  the  way  you  mean.  I 
hadn't  even  that  excuse." 

"  I  didn't  consciously  mean  anything  of  that 
sort,"  corrected  Duain,  hotly. 

He  felt  it  a  double  grievance  that  he  had  let 
himself  harbor  such  a  self-conscious  thought, 
and  that  it  had  been  detected  by  Annita  An 
drews,  who  had  not  been  too  quick  to  read  subtle 
shadings  in  the  past.  He  began  to  feel  of  her 
as  she  had  spoken  of  feeling  towards  him,  as  if 
she  were  two  people — one,  the  shy,  silent  girl  he 
had  known  ;  and  the  other,  this  new  and  inex 
plicable  woman,  palpitating,  flushing,  and  quiv 
ering  before  him,  yet  always  self -controlled. 
60 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

She  went  on,  with  the  same  quiet  dignity, 
turning  away  from  that  side  of  the  subject, 
and  forcing  herself  to  tell  the  whole  of  her 
story,  though  it  could  buy  her  nothing. 

"  And  then,  too,  I  knew  that  I  was  only 
wronging  you  —  the  dead,  as  I  thought ;  by 
doing  this,  I  knew  that — "  Her  voice  sank,  she 
looked  down  at  her  hands,  twisting  her  fingers 
together  hesitatingly.  "  I  knew  that  there 
was  no  other  woman  who  might  be  wronged 
by  it,  because — " 

Her  soft  voice  broke  off,  she  glanced  up  at 
him  appealingly,  and  he  finished  the  sentence 
for  her  with  gravity  and  no  disguise. 

"  Because  you  knew  her  well,  and  she  told 
you  that  I  had  loved  her  ?" 

"  Yes."  She  did  not  look  at  him,  and  spoke 
in  hushed  tones,  as  if  intruding  on  some  sanc 
tuary.  "You  mustn't  think  she  ever  told  me 
anything  more  ;  you  mustn't  think  that.  She 
only  told  of  the  bare  fact  and  her  distress  that 
it  was  so.  Did  you  know — "  She  looked  up 
again,  quickly,  and  he  read  plainly  her  first 
impulse  to  be  a  messenger,  of  new  hopes  to 
him,  and  then  the  more  delicate  impulse  of 
present  restraint. 

"  I  knew  that  she  was  free  again,"  he  said, 
with  equal  gravity. 

61 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

This  seemed  to  him  also  no  .place  or  time 
for  discussion  of  her.  But  was  this  the  Annita 
Andrews  he  had  known  as  utterly  devoid  of 
impulses  of  any  kind  ?  His  mother  had  said 
she  was  changed,  and  she  was  right.  Expe 
rience  had  greatly  changed  and  softened  her. 
He  caught  himself  up  with  an  effort,  remem 
bering  that  Annita  Andrews  had  passed  through 
no  experience.  The  dead  lover  she  had  stolen, 
and  mourned  in  pretence,  now  stood  by  her  in 
the  life,  confessedly  loving  another  woman, 
and  to  that  woman's  side  she  was  almost  send 
ing  him,  apparently  without  a  pang,  indeed 
with  ill  -  concealed  eagerness.  Duain  would 
stand  it  no  longer. 

"  I  know  you  will  think  me  unkind,"  he  said, 
abruptly ;  "  I  don't  mean  to  be,  and  I  can't  feel 
myself  that  I  am  ;  but  we  can't  go  on  in  this 
way,  Annita.  I  feel  like  a  man  in  a  dream, 
and  nothing  is  growing  plain  to  me.  I  have 
been  very  ill,  and  perhaps  that  helps  to  con 
fuse  me,  but  I  must  ask  of  you  some  kind  of 
explanation." 

He  stooped  and  took  one  of  her  hands  be 
tween  both  of  his,  with  kindly  reverence,  but 
no  gallantry. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  first,"  he  said,  earnestly, 
"  that  I  forgive  you  here  and  now  everything, 
62 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  sins  confessed  and 
unconfessed.  But  I  do  want  to  understand  it 
all.  Do  you  call  that  unnatural,  Annita  ?  It 
will  be  better  for  us  both  as  things  are,  it  seems 
to  me.  Come,  sit  here  and  try  to  remember 
how  long  we  have  known  each  other — forever. 
We  went  to  school  together,  didn't  we  ?"  He 
drew  her  to  a  chair  as  he  spoke,  and  stood  by 
her  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  another,  as 
if  waiting  her  permission  to  sit  near  her ;  but 
seeing  that,  despite  his  gentleness,  she  was 
again  too  agitated  to  take  the  initiative,  he 
sat  opposite  to  her,  now  plainly  determined  to 
probe  the  matter  to  the  bottom,  yet  not  un 
kind  in  his  manner  of  insistence. 

"  You  haven't  left  me  a  chance  to  flatter  my 
self  in  any  regard,  you  know,"  he  said,  encour 
agingly.  "  I  begin  to  see  that  I  was  only  a  kind 
of  peg  for  you  to  hang  something  on,  and  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  what  it  was." 

She  looked  up  at  him  instantly,  with  a  quick 
gleam  of  something  like  gratification  in  the 
dark  eyes  he  found  so  wonderfully  changed 
and  softened. 

"  That  was  it,"  she  cried,  more  naturally  than 

she  had  spoken.     "You   have   understood  it 

yourself,  as  I  didn't  think  I  should  ever  be  able 

to  make  you  understand  it ;  but  you  don't 

63 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

know,  and  I  can't  ever  hope  to  make  you  know, 
how  much  hung  on  all  this  for  me.  You  have 
always  had  affection,  so  you  can't  value  it  as 
I  did.  Every  one  cared  for  you.  This  whole 
town  is  mourning  for  you  to-day  as  when  you 
first—" 

"  First  died,"  suggested  Duain,  with  a  laugh. 
But  it  was  a  laugh  that  only  served  to  show 
he  was  strongly  moved.  "It's  worth  having 
died  twice  to  know  that,"  he  added,  with  feel 
ing. 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  live  and  suffer  all 
the  rest  of  your  life  as  I  must  for  having  had 
one  year  of  something  like  it  ?" 

Duain  turned  sharply  from  his  own  emotion 
and  faced  the  speaker,  as  if  looking  at  some 
one  never  met  before.  Yet  it  was  the  same 
Annita  Andrews.  This  woman  too  had  mo 
notonous  fair  hair,  and  features  too  regular 
for  what  he  called  beauty.  She  too  was  color 
less,  until  she  raised  her  eyes  ;  but  those  deep 
ened,  changing  eyes  altered  and  illumined  the 
whole  face,  and  the  quivering  mouth  was  as 
sensitive  as  a  lovely  flower.  Her  low  voice, 
vibrating  with  passion  and  womanly  longing, 
fell  on  Duain's  amazed  ears,  stirring  him  pro 
foundly.  Bewildered,  he  looked  once  more  for 
the  brown  eyes  he  remembered  as  shallow  and 
64 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

uninteresting,  and  again  he  met  something  so 
different,  so  like  a  soul's  revelation,  that  his 
look  fell  before  hers.  He  remembered  sudden 
ly,  and  with  a  strange  vividness,  how  as  a  boy 
he  had  once  wandered  alone  into  an  unlit 
church,  and  sat  looking  at  the  cold  altar,  at 
the  rigid  chancel  outlines,  wondering  with  boy 
ish  intolerance  at  the  rapt  devotion  of  those 
who  knelt  about  him,  straying  in  to  drop  a 
prayer  before  this  cold  shrine.  Then  a  little 
door  in  the  chancel  had  opened,  and  a  white- 
robed  acolyte  crept  in  with  a  lighted  taper  in 
his  hand.  He  touched  the  tiny  flame  here 
and  there  about  the  altar,  and  instantly  a  soft 
radiance  sprang  into  life.  The  rigid  outlines 
grew  into  mystic  holy  places.  The  cold  altar 
had  a  being  of  its  own,  a  strange  sweet  power 
to  call  and  claim,  and,  overtaken  by  the  subtle 
spell  of  the  transformation,  the  boy's  recep 
tive  spirit  had  grown  awe-struck  and  melted. 
He  remembered  that  he  had  involuntarily 
bent  his  knees  for  the  moment ;  then,  quickly 
ashamed  of  this  act  of  worship,  so  apart  from 
the  faith  of  his  own  people,  he  had  risen  hur 
riedly  and  run  from  the  church.  This  emo 
tion  of  long  ago  was  what  he  now  recalled,  as 
he  saw  the  soul  of  a  woman  rise  and  light  An- 
nita  Andrews's  eyes.  In  that  moment  he  knew 
E  65 


• 
THE    SIXTH   SENSE 

what  the  girl  he  had  known  had  lacked,  and 
what  had  been  gained  by  this  woman  who  now 
was.  That  indefinable  something,  that  flame 
of  life  which  he  could  not  name,  but  without 
which  a  woman  was  no  woman  to  him,  had,  by 
some  strange  alchemy  of  life,  been  added  to 
a  seemingly  sealed  nature.  The  sixth  sense 
of  womanhood,  his  mother  had  called  it,  but 
the  name  mattered  little  to  Duain.  Whatever 
this  gain  was,  with  all  its  subtle  charm  and 
elusive  beauty,  he  knew  it  was  now  Annita 
Andrews's  possession,  and  he  felt  its  power. 
As  his  quick  imaginative  brain  worked  to  this 
end,  Duain  knew  as  instantly  that  a  hitherto 
unsuspected  danger  lurked  here  for  him.  He 
was  with  a  woman  roused  by  himself,  or  at 
least  through  him,  to  a  new  and  bewildering 
charm  and  claim  of  womanhood.  In  this  bare 
fact  lay  enough  to  fire  a  colder  nature,  and  he 
knew  where  his  own  weakness  lay  too  well  to 
trust  himself.  As  in  his  boyish  rush  from  the 
church,  so  now  he  felt — safety  for  him  lay  in 
immediate  flight.  He  had  stirred  in  his  chair 
to  rise  and  leave  her,  when  Annita  spoke  again, 
and  what  she  said  made  Duain  sink  back 
quickly,  with  the  boyish  flush  of  a  self-detect 
ed  coxcombry  again  coloring  his  cheek.  An 
nita  seemed  either  to  have  forgotten  his  ex- 
66 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

istence  as  a  part  of  the  problem,  or  else  she 
was  speaking  with  deliberate  intent  to  reas 
sure  him.  Her  excitement  had  gone,  and  she 
was  again  more  like  herself  as  he  knew  her 
first  and  best. 

"  I  have  never  cared  at  all,  not  at  all,  for  any 
man  in  the  world.  Perhaps  it  is  because  no 
man  in  the  world  ever  cared  for  me.  But  how 
would  you  like  to  think,  and  have  all  your  world 
know,  that  no  one  had  ever  felt  it  would  be  a 
happiness  to  spend  the  rest  of  life  with  you  ?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  the  first  smile  of 
their  interview,  and  for  the  first  time  her  man 
ner  became  that  of  the  old  childish  familiarity, 
as  his  to  her. 

"  You  never  suffered  under  anything  like 
that.  I  always  wondered  why  you  weren't 
spoiled,  Jack,  but  you  never  were  conceited 
about  women." 

She  spoke  appreciatively  and  simply,  and 
with  a  pretty  grace  of  womanliness  far  re 
moved  from  coquetry.  Duain  felt  like  hang 
ing  his  head  and  confessing  how  nearly  spoiled 
he  had  been  about  to  prove  himself  regarding 
her.  Plainly  he  need  have  no  fear  of  capture 
here. 

"Annita,"  he  said,  with  a  little  laughing  hesi 
tation,  "is  it  true  that  no  man  ever  spoke  a 
67 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

word  of  love  to  you  ?   Are  you  really  so  virgin 
a  forest?" 

She  laughed  also,  with  no  offence  or  embar 
rassment,  but  with  little  mirth. 

"  If  any  one  had  told  me  a  half-hour  ago  that 
I  could  be  laughing  here  with  you,  I  couldn't 
have  believed  it.  You  must  have  been  very 
kind  indeed,  and  good.  I  don't  seem  to  be  tell 
ing  you  all  you  wanted  me  to  tell  you,  but  all 
we  are  saying  is  bearing  on  it  more  than  you 
know.  And  perhaps  this  is  the  easiest  way, 
after  all.  No,  I  have  never  had  a  lover,  nor  a 
word  of  real  love  spoken  to  me,  and  I  don't  re 
member  ever  wanting  either  very  much.  You 
can't  understand  that,  can  you  ?" 

She  glanced  at  him  with  a  little  smile  in  her 
deep  eyes,  and,  looking  at  her  again,  Duain  re 
peated,  with  a  wonder  that  was  real : 

"You  never  had  a  lover  !     But  why  not  ?" 

Though  the  passing  flame  of  passion  that 
lit  her  face  was  gone,  and  with  it  the  inten 
sity  which  had  startled  him,  he  knew  that  he 
could  never  again  look  at  her  without  a  stir  of 
memory,  without  seeing  the  possibility  of  that 
flame  again  lighting  her  features,  just  as  the 
sight  of  a  cold  altar  still  invariably  recalled  to 
him  the  living  vision  of  the  one  he  had  seen 
light  to  sudden  radiance. 
68 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

"Why  not?"  he  repeated,  as  she  did  not 
reply. 

She  shook  her  head,  with  the  same  half -smile 
on  her  sensitive  lips  and  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  wouldn't  have  said  '  why  not  ?'  a  year 
ago.  I  have  changed  in  this  year.  I  know  it. 
I  see  it  in  the  mirror  of  every  one's  manner 
to  me ;  even  yours.  I  can't  explain  it,  but  it 
is  so,  and — oh,  it  has  been  such  a  happy  year  ! 
I  never  wanted  lovers,  but  I  always  wanted, 
passionately,  to  have  what  I  have  now.  I 
mean  I  wanted  to  be  able  to  attract  and  to 
hold  people  the  way  other  girls  did ;  not  to 
hold  men  only,  but  women.  You  don't  know 
what  a  shy,  unattractive  woman  suffers,  or 
how  lonely  it  is,  shut  up  in  yourself.  I  was 
pitifully,  desperately  lonely.  Not  a  soul  ever 
cared  to  stay  with  me.  I  shall  be  more  than 
lonely  now.  That -is  the  price  I  must  pay  for 
one  year  of  this.  The  price  I  must  pay !" 

Her  voice  broke  sharply  in  a  sudden  sobbing 
breath.  Her  face  flushed  and  her  eyes  lifted 
exactly  as  Duain  had  seen  a  sudden  physical 
pang  flush  the  face  and  lift  the  bravest  eye. 
She  struggled  for  self-control,  but  the  sob  in 
her  throat  was  followed  by  another  and  an 
other.  With  a  cry  of  helpless  distress  she 
broke  down  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
69 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

hands.  Duain  bent  forward  and  laid  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 

"  Don't  cry  so,  Annita — don't,"  he  said,  help 
lessly.  He  had  thought  earlier  it  would  have 
been  easier  for  him  if  she  had  thus  broken 
down.  The  courage  and  self-control  he  had 
admired  had,  he  felt,  hampered  him,  because 
it  compelled  his  tolerance ;  but  this  was  ten 
fold  harder.  He  had  no  stand-point  left  of  the 
past  or  present  from  which  to  comfort  her. 
With  a  confused  impulse  which  he  could  not 
deny  and  did  not  stop  to  analyze,  he  bent 
nearer,  and,  with  a  quick  motion,  caught  her 
and  held  her  to  him  as  if  defending  her. 

"  There  is  no  price,"  he  said,  speaking  rap 
idly.  "Why  should  there  be?  No  one  need 
ever  know  anything.  I  don't  know  all  that 
has  happened  myself,  and  you  need  never  tell 
me.  I  trust  you.  I  can't  help  trusting  you. 
There  has  been  some  mistake  somewhere, 
and  I  am  willing  to  abide  by  it.  Are  you, 
Annita?" 

She  raised  her  head  and  stared  at  him,  her 
tears  driven  away  by  her  amazement.  Though 
she  did  not  move  to  withdraw  from  his  arms, 
he  knew  it  was  only  because  speech  and  motion 
were  alike  paralyzed.  He  spoke  again,  with 
more  feeling,  as  his  eyes  met  hers.  "The 
70 


THE   SIXTH   SENSE 

price  is  too  heavy  for  you  to  bear,  far  too  heavy. 
There  will  be  none  to  pay  if  you  marry  me, 
Annita." 

"  I  ?  Don't  you  understand  anything  I  have 
said  ?  There  was  no  mistake.  I  can't  pay  too 
heavy  a  price  for  what  I  did.  I  went  to  your 
own  mother  and  I  lied  to  her."  She  put  her 
hand  to  her  throat  as  if  the  words  actually 
choked  her,  but  went  on  firmly,  her  face  set. 
"  She  thought  I  said  you  were  my  lover,  and  I 
let  her  think  I  did  say  so,  and  I  let  every  one 
think  the  same.  I've  stolen  all  the  sweets  of 
a  loved  woman,  reaped  all  her  privileges.  You 
have  no  reason  to  pity  me,  Jack,  no  reason  to 
sacrifice  yourself  to  me." 

Despite  the  sternness  of  her  effort,  she  spoke 
with  a  simpleness,  a  sweetness  and  gratitude, 
that  touched  Duain  deeply,  and  the  soldier  in 
him  stirred  again  at  her  courage. 

"  There  would  be  no  sacrifice.  I  can  see  that 
now  very  plainly,  and  I  could  make  you  happy, 
I  think.  If  you  love  me — " 

She  withdrew  from  him  strongly,  taking  the 
leadership  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  do  not,"  she  said,  with  spirit — "  I  do  not 
love  you.  I  thought  I  made  that  plain  from 
the  first.  I  tried  to  make  it  plain.  I  had  no 
such  excuse  as  loving  you.  And  while  I  owe 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

you  a  great  deal  of  reparation,  you  owe  me 
nothing — nothing  at  all — least  of  all  yourself. 
Now  I  beg  of  you — won't  you  listen  to  me  a 
moment?  I  will  try  to  speak  plainly  and  as 
shortly  as  I  can,  and  then  go  away  forever. 
This  talk  has  been  too  long  already.  I  came 
in  upon  your  mother  just  as  she  heard  of  your 
supposed  death,  when  she  was  suffering  most. 
I  don't  know  what  made  me  act  as  I  did.  I 
was  not  apt  to  do  impulsive  things  then.  She 
must  have  begun  to  influence  me  from  that 
moment.  I  have  never  been  so  influenced  by 
any  one  as  by  her.  I  never  shall  be  again.  I 
cried  there  with  her  tears,  and  I  trembled  as 
she  trembled,  until  at  last  she  turned  on  me 
suddenly  and  asked  me  if — if  I  had  better  and 
deeper  reason  for  such  grief  than  she.  And 
she  said  it  so  searchingly,  with  such  clinging 
caresses,  such  tenderness,  that  —  I  can  never 
explain  it — but  when  I  found  my  voice  after 
the  first  shock,  that  did  stun  me,  I  could  no 
more  bring  my  tongue  to  say  the  word  that 
would  separate  us  than  I  could  have  struck 
her.  Oh,  you  know  how  lovely  she  is  ! — what 
it  means  to  be  loved  by  her  !  While  I  waited — " 
She  paused,  the  great  pain  and  difficulty  of 
speech  returning.  "  It  grew  too  late.  Silence 
was  consent  to  her.  Before  I  knew  it  I  was  in 
72 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

her  arms,  on  her  heart.  I  have  been  there 
ever  since.  You  are  her  son.  You  know  all 
it  means.  At  first  I  tried  again  and  again  to 
tell  her,  to  confess  to  her,  but  that  first  day  I 
was  so  frightened,  so  dismayed,  at  what  I  had 
done — I  fainted  ;  and  before  I  could  undo  any 
thing,  she  had  told,  not  only  dear  Helen,  but 
the  doctor.  You  know  she  is  not  very  secret. 
And  then  others  knew  it — and  then — I — I  quite 
gave  up  trying  to  alter  anything.  Sometimes 
I  suffered  horribly.  I  was  always  afraid,  but 
I  was  happier  than  ever  in  my  life.  I  even  let 
your  mother  think  you  had  given  me  this  ring 
—  my  grandmother's  wedding  -  ring."  She 
flushed  deeply  as  she  touched  a  ring  on  her 
hand,  and  went  on  less  fixedly,  more  restlessly, 
flushing  and  paling  by  turns.  "  I  don't  know 
why  these  little  lies  humiliate  me  more  than 
the  great  one,  but  they  do,  and  that's  why  I 
want  to  tell  you  of  them.  I  loathed  myself 
each  time,  but  not  for  long — I  was  so  happy. 
I  had  never  been  with  loving  people,  you  know, 
and  somehow  every  one  was  at  once  different 
to  me.  Helen  told  me  first  of  her  love-story. 
I  was  her  lover's  confidante  all  through.  No 
one  ever  told  me  anything  before.  They  all 
seemed  to  feel  that  I  would  understand  them 
because  I  had  loved.  And  I  did  understand, 
73 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

but  not  for  that  reason.  I  could  always  have 
understood.  It  was  what  I  was  starving  for, 
though  I  didn't  know  it.  It  was  like  a  beauti 
ful  new  birth.  I  never  lived  at  all  before  this 
year.  I  was  only  a  kind  of  sexless  thing.  You 
don't  know  what  being  a  woman  may  mean  to 
a  woman.  I  never  knew  the  privileges  of  real 
womanhood.  I  can't  discuss  or  describe  them, 
only  they  make  a  wonderful  world  to  itself — 
and  I'm  glad — yes,  I  am  glad  I  have  lived  in 
it.  I  know  my  way  to  it  was  a  lie — and  such 
a  disgraceful  lie ! — and  it  only  opened  the  door 
to  me  for  one  year,  but — " 

She  paused,  her  tense  voice  quivering,  and 
shivered  slightly,  as  if  in  the  chill  of  a  reaction. 
Her  words  came  slowly  ;  her  face  was  so  white 
that  Duain,  watching  her  intently,  stirred  and 
quivering  himself,  was  frightened  at  her  pallor. 

"I  can  never  go  back  to  just  what  I  was. 
No  one  will  confide  in  me — or  ever  respect  me 
again — but  I  shall  still  be  a  woman — a  woman, 
and  always  ashamed." 

She  rose  and  stood.  Duain  rose  also,  stand 
ing  and  looking  at  her  as  speechless  as  when 
they  first  met.  He  knew  she  was  right.  There 
was  no  deeper  shame  in  the  world  than  that 
of  a  woman  shamed  in  her  own  sight  and  in 
the  sight  of  other  women.  Men  might  for- 
74 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

give  her  this  fatal  mistake — he  himself  saw  her 
temptation,  her  great  and  peculiar  gain,  ill- 
gotten  though  it  was,  and  forgave  her  freely ; 
but  women,  he  knew,  would  never  again  re 
ceive  her  on  equal  terms.  She  seemed  to  have 
fully  realized  and  faced  this  fact,  and  accepted 
it  as  her  just  punishment. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  give  these  to  you,"  she 
said,  quietly.  "Your  mother  won't  want  to 
speak  of  them  or  to  me  when  you  tell  her  all 
I  have  told  you.  She  has  given  me  some 
thing? — treasures  to  her — that  had  belonged 
to  you.  Here  they  are.  Will  you  take  them 
to  her?" 

She  drew  out  from  her  bosom  a  thin  gold 
chain  that  held  a  miniature  painted  on  ivory, 
a  boyish  likeness  of  Duain.  Tied  with  it  was 
a  small  gold  pencil,  which  Duain  also  recog 
nized  as  one  he  had  always  worn  on  his  watch- 
chain.  He  still  stood  watching  her,  in  a  kind 
of  horrified  dismay,  as  she  detrched  both  to 
kens  from  the  chain  about  her  neck  and  laid 
them  on  the  table  near  his  hand.  She  seemed 
to  attach  no  especial  force  to  this  part  of  her 
confession,  though  Duain  did  not  move  to  take 
the  tokens,  but  waited  as  before,  his  eyes  intent 
upon  her  face.  That  a  few  moments  back  he 
should  have  gone  so  far  as  to  be  definitely  de- 
75 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

nied  by  her  had  filled  him  with  amazement. 
He  had  been  conscious  of  a  sense  of  deep 
gratitude  to  her  for  the  generosity  of  that 
denial.  He  had  brushed  near  a  danger,  and 
escaped  it  by  no  good  offices  of  his  own,  and 
yet  recognition  of  the  danger  escaped  could 
not  restrain  in  him  an  unaccountable  and 
overpowering  desire  to  right  her  in  his  own 
mind  at  any  risk.  Something  in  the  motion 
of  her  hand  as  she  laid  the  tokens  down  forced 
a  redeeming  conviction  upon  him. 

"  You  do  care  !"  he  cried,  suddenly  and  warm 
ly.  "You  couldn't  have  worn  those  on  your 
heart  for  a  year  if  you  hadn't  cared  for  them. 
It  would  have  been  horrible  !  Don't  you  see, 
it  would  be  horrible  ;  worse  than  all !  If  you 
don't  care  for  them,  if  you  don't  care  for  me, 
why  is  your  hand  still  lying  there  by  them  ? 
Why  don't  you  turn  them  aside  as  if  they  were 
common  things." 

If  he  could  have  recalled  the  hasty  words  he 
would  have  done  so  almost  as  they  were  spoken, 
for  she  lifted  her  hand  with  a  start,  as  if  the 
tokens  scorched  her,  and  laid  it  on  her  heart. 
It  was  no  motion  of  melodrama.  He  could 
see  her  suffering,  see  her  breast  heaving  under 
her  palm  as  she  pressed  it  down,  as  though 
trying  to  hold  her  body  quiet  by  force  while 
76 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

she  thought.  Her  dark  eyes  began  to  stare  at 
him  pitifully,  growing  wider  as  with  fright. 
At  last,  trembling  and  weak,  she  made  one 
faltering  step  to  fly,  but  her  strength  failed, 
and,  with  a  little  moaning  cry  of  helplessness, 
she  sank  on  her  knees  by  the  table,  dragging 
the  tokens  desperately  towards  her,  and  hiding 
her  face  with  them  in  her  arms. 

Duain  stood  looking  down  at  what  he  had 
done,  aghast  and  frightened.  He  dared  not 
touch  her  or  speak  to  her.  He  could  interpret 
her  emotion  but  one  way,  and  he,  and  he  alone, 
had  done  this  much  at  least.  But  for  him  she 
would  have  gone  out  of  his  life  quietly,  and  it 
might  have  been  unconsciously  as  to  her  heart's 
secret.  He  had  betrayed  her  to  herself  and 
before  him. 

How  long  he  stood  looking  down  at  the  mo 
tionless  figure  he  never  knew.  If  it  were 
moments  or  if  it  were  hours  that  framed  his 
resolution  he  could  not  have  told.  He  only 
knew  at  last  that  he  blindly  followed  a  strug 
gling  impulse,  stronger  than  he  dared  resist, 
when  he  knelt  down  by  her  side  and  touched 
her  hair  softly,  rousing  her. 

"  Annita,"  he  asked,  gently,  "  was  I  right  ? 
You  do  care?" 

She  raised  the  whitest  face,  the  most  wretch- 
77 


THE   SIXTH   SENSE 

ed  eyes,  he  had  ever  seen.  Emotion  seemed 
exhausted  in  her,  but  his  heart  beat  fast  and 
thick  as  he  again  saw  her  face  lit  with  the  re 
pressed  passion  of  despair,  but  even  so  lit 
again  to  a  beauty  that  caught  his  breath.  It 
was  more  than  the  siren  charm  he  had  de 
manded  of  all  women  in  his  past.  It  was  the 
charm  of  a  delicate  womanhood  matured  by 
living,  suffering,  sinning  perhaps,  but  growing 
always  into  something  finer,  more  uplifted, 
more  forceful  and  possessive  of  life — like  the 
wind-flower  that  in  the  spring  sends  up  its 
pure  frail  blossoms  to  be  swayed  by  every 
wind  of  the  earth,  while  below  are  the  vivid, 
time-colored  leaves  of  last  summer's  growth. 
She  had  changed  as  he  now  knew  he  had 
changed,  both  watered  by  tears  of  blood,  but 
she  had  put  forth  delicate  blossoms  under  that 
wintry  rain. 

Had  he  ? 

Another  face  rose  before  him — the  sweet 
siren  face  that  had  gayly  ruled  his  youth  and 
haunted  his  soldier  days,  and  with  the  rising 
vision  a  great  tumult  began  for  him,  a  great 
inward  dismay  and  distress.  Strive  as  he 
might,  the  light  of  that  sweet,  long-loved  face 
was  only  as  the  petty  candles  of  a  gay  booth 
by  the  deeper  lights,  the  altarlike  radiance, 
78 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

the  white  passion,  of  this  despairing  face,  to 
which  he  had  turned,  he  believed,  only  in  pity 
and  generous  compassion.  Was  this  new  sense 
of  reverence  his  blossom  of  new  growth  ? 

He  stood  speechless,  and  she  pushed  the 
tokens  from  her,  not  looking  again  at  them  or 
at  him. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  teach  me  this?  Wasn't 
my  punishment  enough  ?  I  might  never  have 
known  !" 

"  You  must  have  known  it  sooner  or  later  ; 
and  i^n't  it  better  to  think  that  you  were  not 
playing  a  part  all  this  year?  Haven't  you  less 
shame,  knowing  that?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  She  rose,  refusing  his 
aid.  "  Yes,  it  is  less  ugly  this  way,  and  I  don't 
suppose  I  shall  suffer  much  more  than  I  must 
have  suffered." 

Again  she  paused,  and  again  the  low  voice, 
deep  with  the  effort  of  speech,  painfully  sweet 
with  feeling,  stirred  his  heart  bewilderingly. 

"  I  would  rather  have  you  know  that  I  never 
wore  those  on — on  my  heart  until  I  felt  a  real 
tenderness  for  them.  I  thought  I  felt  it  be 
cause  we  talked  of  you  so  constantly,  and  I 
thought  it  was  only  a  vague  hero-worship. 
Oh,  why  should  I  try  to  make  you  understand, 
when  I  don't  understand  myself !  I  only 
79 


THE   SIXTH    SENSE 

know  that  I  never,  never  for  one  instant,  wore 
them  thinking  of  you  as  alive,  or  associated 
any  such  feeling  with  you  as  a  living  man, 
until —  Oh,  believe  that  much,  won't  you  ?" 

She  lifted  her  hand,  which  had  fallen  to  the 
table,  and  without  that  support  stood  un 
steadily. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  talk  any  more,  just  yet. 
If  you  could  get  me  to  my  room  without  seeing 
any  one,  and  then — home.  I  want  a  place  to 
hide.  When  I  am  a  little  stronger  I  will  write 
to  Mrs.  Duain.  I  can  never  see  your  mother 
again." 

Her  mouth  quivered  with  the  last  words. 

"  You  will  see  her  often,"  said  Duain,  gravely. 
He  went  on  slowly,  as  if  feeling  for  words,  or 
letting  that  same  sure,  slow -moving  impulse 
prompt  him  : 

"  This  can't  end  so,  Annita.  Don't  you  see 
it  is  impossible  ?  Can  I  forget  you  after  this  ? 
Can  you  forget  me  ?  When  I  spoke  before  it 
was  under  excitement.  I  know  I  only  half 
meant  it.  But  now — if  you  love  me  —  as  you 
love  me — " 

"  Don't  !"  she  cried,  throwing  out  her  hands 
and  shrinking  back.  "  I  can't  stand  this.  Not 
your  pity — it  stung  before,  and  now — " 

She  stood  trembling  from  head  to  foot  be- 
So 


THE    SIXTH    SENSE 

fore  him,  and  with  a  quick  motion  he  took  her 
strongly,  almost  by  force,  into  his  arms.  He 
drew  her  head  upon  his  breast,  holding  it  where 
he  could  look  down  on  her  face.  In  it,  in  the 
deep,  startled  eyes,  in  the  quivering  question 
of  her  sensitive  mouth,  in"  the  exquisite  flush 
of  her  unbelief,  he  seemed  to  be  reading  the 
key  to  his  own  conduct,  his  own  assured  im 
pulse — explicable  only  in  that  moment  to  him 
self. 

"  But  now — "  he  repeated  slowly,  almost  as 
if  thinking  aloud.  "  No,  no,  this  is  not  pity — 
not  pity  at  all.  It  is  reverence — love." 


UNCLE  ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

"  WELL,  it  can't  be  helped,  girls,  and  there's 
no  use  crying  over  it." 

"  That's  exactly  why  we  are  crying,  Joseph. 
If  it  could  be  helped,  there'd  be  nothing  to  cry 
about.  Are  you  sure  Uncle  Elijah  means  Pen- 
niniah  too  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  just  what  he  said.  He  fixed  his 
face  like  this,  and  he  crossed  his  hands  on  his 
stomach  like  this,  and  he  said,  way  down  in  his 
throat :  '  Joseph,  there's  no  use  arguing  with 
me  any  more,  and  don't  you  dare  to  let  Annie 
Tousey  come  here  to  try  to  talk  me  over.  She 
fooled  me  once,  and  the  same  person  don't  fool 
me  twice.  You  tell  her,  from  me,  that  the  farm 
you  are  living  on  is  mine — she  never  rested  till 
she  sold  it  to  me — and  now  I'm  going  to  rent 
it  to  another  party.  You  tell  her  that  I  invite 
her  and  Penniniah  and  their  husband  to  come 
and  live  with  me,  and  that's  a  fair  offer.  Some 
body's  got  to  take  care  of  the  old  man,  and 
82 


UNCLE    ELIJAH'S   CORNER  CUPBOARD 

that's  the  only  way  this  old  man's  going  to  be 
taken  care  of.' " 

"  Upon  my  word !"  exclaimed  Penniniah, 
scarlet  with  indignation.  But  Joseph's  wife 
threw  down  her  handkerchief  from  her  face, 
°,nd  laughed  through  her  tears. 

"  Their  husband!  Did  he  honestly  say  that, 
Joseph  ?  Don't  be  so  silly,  Penniniah  ;  it's  only 
Uncle  Elijah." 

"  I  think  it  was  the  height  of  impertinence," 
answered  Penniniah,  loftily,  and  her  sister 
laughed  again. 

"  Well,  Pen,  we  bring  it  on  ourselves.  Joseph 
calls  you  '  honey '  and  me  '  dearie,'  and  you 
keep  the  linen-closet  and  I  the  pantry,  and  you 
make  the  cake  and  I  make  the  butter,  and  I 
darn  Joseph's  stockings  and  you  mend  his  linen, 
and  I  guess  people  do  laugh  at  us  ;  but  I  don't 
care  if  they  do.  You  care  so  much  about  every 
thing,  Pen." 

"  He  said  something  worse  than  that,  Penny." 
Joseph  loved  to  tease  his  sister-in-law  in  a  good- 
natured  way.  "  When  he  was  talking,  and  talk 
ing  to  me  about  its  being  my  duty  to  come  and 
live  with  him,  I  said :  '  See  here,  father,  what 
about  the  girls  ?  You  don't  want  me  to  leave 
them,  do  you  ?'  You  know  how  he  works  his 
fingers  over  his  face  when  he's  going  to  say 
83 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S   CORNER  CUPBOARD 

something  hateful?  'Well,'  he  began,  brush 
ing  his  nose  down  like  this,  Pen,  'when  I  invited 
the  girls'  husband  to  come  and  live  with  me,  I 
meant  the  girls  too,  of  course.  Husbands  em 
brace  their  wives,  don't  they  ?'  " 

Again  Penniniah  bridled  in  her  anger,  and 
again  the  wife  laughed.  "  The  horrid  old  thing  ! 
Pen  thinks  that's  dreadfully  indelicate,  Joseph. 
She  won't  laugh.  Never  mind,  Penny ;  we'll  talk 
about  something  else.  How  are  our  chickens, 
Joseph  ?" 

"  Dead." 

"  Dead  ?  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  They 
weren't  dead  the  last  time  I  was  over  there." 

"  Wasn't  our  agreement  that  we  should  sup 
ply  the  eggs,  and  father  set  his  hens  on  them 
and  feed  the  chickens?  We  were  to  have  a 
third  of  the  results,  weren't  we  ?  Well,  it's 
been  a  poor  chicken  year,  and  all  of  ours  are 
dead." 

"  But,  Joseph—" 

''Well,  dearie?" 

"Joseph,  do  be  serious.  How  many  of  the 
chickens  are  alive  ?" 

"  Just  father's  proportion  exactly.  Ours  are 
the  dead  ones." 

Joseph  threw  back  his  head  and  burst  into 
long  and  loud  laughter,  but  this  time  his  wife 
84 


UNCLE    ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

did  not  follow  his  mirth.    She  put  up  her  hand 
kerchief  to  her  eyes  with  a  gasp  of  distress. 

"  Oh,  Joseph,  how  can  we  ever  live  in  his 
house  ?  He's  dreadful !  If  he'd  only  come 
here  to  live,  it  would  be  our  house,  and  we'd 
have  some  control." 

"  Don't  you  suppose  father  knows  that  as 
well  as  you  do  ?"  answered  Joseph.  "  That's 
just  why  he  won't  come." 

But  Annie  was  now  past  laughter,  and  Joseph 
rose  and  went  towards  his  wife  to  comfort  her. 

"  Now,  Annie,  don't  you  give  up.  It's  not 
like  you.  You  never  give  up.  He's  my  step 
father  and  he's  your  own  uncle,  and  we've  got 
to  take  care  of  him  somehow ;  but  don't  you 
worry.  You  thought  out  a  way  to  manage  him 
before,  and  perhaps  you  will  again." 

Mrs.  Joseph,  her  face  still  hidden,  shook  her 
head  despondingly. 

"  That's  the  reason  I  can't  do  anything  now. 
He's  as  suspicious  of  me  as  he  can  be.  He's  so 
stupid,  he's  on  his  guard  if  I  only  say  '  Good- 
morning,  Uncle  Elijah.' " 

"  That's  not  stupid ;  that's  business,  Annie. 
You  fooled  him  once,  and  you'd  fool  him  now 
if  you  got  the  chance — you  know  you  would. 
He  has  to  be  careful  with  you.  Father's  no 
fool ;  I  wish  he  were." 

85 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

Mrs.  Joseph  lifted  her  face,  shaking  the  tears 
from  her  eyes  as  she  did  so. 

"Well,  it's  still  summer,  and  we  won't  borrow 
trouble.  If  we  can  put  off  settling  this  until 
Christmas,  we  will.  Didn't  you  say  he  was  will 
ing  to  wait  until  Christmas,  Joseph  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Joseph,  indulgently. 
"  We've  a  long,  cold  autumn  to  think  it  over  in." 
His  blue  eyes  twinkled  as  he  looked  up.  "  I 
don't  mean  to  be  parricidal,  Annie,  but  if  father 
was  buying  himself  to  keep  till  Christmas,  he'd 
insist  on  a  discount.  What  do  you  suppose  he 
was  doing  when  I  saw  him  last  night  ?  Eating 
mushrooms  for  his  supper." 

Mrs.  Joseph  turned  sharply.  "  Joseph,  you 
didn't  eat  any  ?" 

"  No  !  He  offered  me  some  to  bring  home 
to  you,  but  I  told  him  I'd  had  too  much  trouble 
getting  my  family  together,  to  run  any  such 
risks  with  it.  Poor  old  man  !  He  was  eating 
away  with  the  ends  of  his  teeth,  scared  to  death 
all  the  time  for  fear  of  a  stray  toadstool." 

"  They  won't  hurt  him,"  said  Mrs.  Joseph, 
resignedly.  "  He's  been  eating  them  ever  since 
he  read  in  the  almanac  that  '  many  a  nutritious 
mushroom  meal  goes  to  waste  in  the  fence  cor 
ners  of  improvident  people.'  There's  another 
trouble  if  we  go  to  live  with  Uncle  Elijah.  Jo- 
86 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

seph,  I  cannot  and  I  will  not  eat  mushrooms, 
and  Pen  won't,  and  you  sha'n't.  How  he  man 
ages  to  live  on  the  things  he  does  I  don't  see — 
mushrooms  and  pusley  greens  and  stuff !  He 
insisted  on  the  fat  and  the  cream  of  everything 
when  he  was  a  young  man.  Grandmother  used 
to  say  she  liked  to  cook  for  him,  because  he 
didn't  eat  just  for  hunger  —  he  loved  food. 
Dear  me  !  what  a  table  she  did  keep  !  I  don't 
believe  she  spent  much  more  for  food  than  we 
do,  Pen,  but —  Do  you  remember  her  gumbo 
soup?  I  put  up  a  lot  of  gumbo  this  year, 
but  our  soups  won't  be  anything  like  hers. 
It  seems  to  me  I  can  taste  her  gumbo  soup 
now." 

"  Can't  you  follow  her  receipt  ?"  asked  Joseph. 

"  Receipt !  She  never  had  any  that  we  ever 
saw.  Grandmother  just  seemed  to  have  cook 
ing  in  her  finger-ends.  Poor  Uncle  Elijah  !  I 
remember,  when  he  first  went  to  house-keeping, 
he  used  to  try  so  hard  to  have  dishes  like  grand 
mother's.  But  grandmother  always  said  she 
hadn't  any  rules  in  cooking,  and  your  poor 
mother — " 

"  Lord  !  I  can  remember  all  that,"  interrupt 
ed  Joseph.  "  Mother  used  to  come  over  here 
and  cry  and  beg  grandmother  for  just  one  re 
ceipt.  No  use.  She  always  said  she  hadn't 
87 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

any  receipts,  but  mother  never  believed  her. 
I  guess  father  got  his  obstinacy  from  grand 
mother." 

"  I  think  that  was  awfully  mean  of  grand 
mother,"  said  Mrs.  Joseph.  "  Uncle  Elijah 
must  have  gotten  his  love  of  good  eating  from 
her  too.  And  now  he  eats  things  I  wouldn't 
set  before  the  hired  hands." 

Joseph  summed  up  the  situation.  "  Oh,  he 
hasn't  always  been  as  bad  as  he  is  now.  He 
always  loved  his  stomach  and  his  pocket-book, 
and  when  he  found  mother  and  the  cooks  he 
hired  after  she  died  couldn't  cook  like  grand 
mother,  he  just  gave  up  his  stomach  to  his 
pocket-book.  That's  about  the  sum  of  it." 

"  If  I  had  some  of  grandmother's  receipts, 
I'll  wager  I  could  cook  almost  as  well  as  grand 
mother  did,"  announced  Mrs.  Joseph.  "  It 
don't  take  much  but  a  few  good  receipts,  and 
common-sense,  and  liking  good  things  to  eat 
yourself,  to  make  a  good  cook.  I  always  did 
like  good  eating,  Joseph.  Indeed,  I  couldn't 
eat  at  Uncle  Elijah's  table.  As  I  sit  here  it 
seems  to  me  I  can  think  of  first  one  thing  and 
then  another  that  I  couldn't  stand,  and  Uncle 
Elijah  wouldn't  have  anything  changed  to  suit 
us.  We  are  just  beginning  to  get  ahead  with 
our  farming  and  making  it  pay,  and  feeling  so 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

independent.  Joseph,  he  must  come  here  to 
us." 

"  He  won't  do  that,  Annie.  There's  no  use 
worrying  yourself  trying  to  make  him.  Father 
never  does  what  he  doesn't  want  to." 

Penniniah  had  not  spoken  for  some  moments. 
Now  her  voice  rose,  and  in  it  was  the  ring  of 
an  inspiring  faith. 

"  But,  Joseph,  Annie  might  make  him  want 
to,  mightn't  she  ?" 

Mrs.  Joseph  turned  her  face  quickly  towards 
this  faithful  believer  in  her  power.  As  she  did 
so  her  eyes  slowly  grew  reflective. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  that's  the  way  I  managed 
him  before.  Uncle  Elijah  said  he  wouldn't  buy 
this  house  at  our  price,  you  remember.  I  made 
him  want  to  do  it,  and  he  did  it,  and  perhaps 
we  can  make  him  want  to  come  here  to  live." 

Joseph  looked  up  with  a  sidewise  glance  of 
humor.  "  Moving  father  is  somewhat  of  a  job 
to  contemplate,  Annie.  If  anybody  can  do  it, 
you  can,  but  I  wouldn't  set  my  heart  on  it.  Do 
you  remember  that  big  old  bowlder  down  at 
the  end  of  father's  farm,  near  the  county  road? 
Some  people  from  the  city  came  driving  out 
one  day  to  ask  father  to  sell  that  bowlder  to 
them.  They  wanted  to  dig  it  out  and  move  it 
to  their  family  burying-lot  as  a  tombstone  for 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

their  father.  They  said  he'd  often  seen  the 
bowlder  from  the  road,  and  always  admired  it. 
It's  about  as  big  as  a  house.  Father  told  them 
they  could  have  it — at  a  price,  of  course — and 
then  he  made  one  of  the  few  jokes  I  ever  heard 
him  make.  '  You  can  have  it  if  you  can  move 
it,'  he  said  (which  he  knew  they  couldn't), '  but, 
ladies,  I  should  think  you'd  find  it  something 
easier  to  move  your  father.'  Now,  Annie,  you 
can  work  that  around  to  suit  this  situation.  I 
should  think  you'd  find  it  something  easier  to 
move  this  stone -house  to  your  Uncle  Elijah 
than  to  bring  him  to  it.  "What  do  you  say,Pen  ?" 

But  Pen  was  still  gazing  with  the  eye  of  faith 
at  Mrs.  Joseph. 

"  If  anybody  can  move  him,  Annie  can,"  re 
peated  Penniniah. 

"  The  question  is,  can  anybody  move  him  ?" 
replied  Mrs.  Joseph.  "Well,  as  Joseph  says, 
we've  a  long,  cold  autumn  to  think  it  over  in, 
and  I  promise  you  I  shall  think  hard." 

Despite  the  mushrooms  so  dutifully  and 
economically  eaten,  if  (according  to  his  step 
son's  suggestion)  old  Mr.  Elijah  Tousey  had 
bought  himself  at  a  discount  on  a  question  of 
longevity,  he  would  have  made  a  good  bargain. 
Indeed,  by  the  time  the  Christmas  season  came 
90 


UNCLE  ELIJAH'S   CORNER  CUPBOARD 

around,  the  old  man  seemed  somehow  to  have 
obtained  a  renewal  of  his  lease  of  life  and  vital 
ity.  He  had  been  obliged  to  use  a  horse  and 
buggy  whenever  he  wished  to  go  any  distance 
from  his  farm — an  extravagance  that  tried  him 
sorely ;  but  now  it  was  observed  that  he  was 
returning  to  the  habits  of  his  youth,  making 
his  feet  do  a  horse's  duty  for  him.  Joseph's 
home  was  some  miles  distant  from  Mr.  Tousey's 
farm  ;  but  on  Christmas  morning,  to  the  amaze 
ment  of  his  nieces  and  step -son,  Mr.  Tousey 
was  discovered  walking  up  the  road  that  led  to 
their  house.  The  paths  had  not  yet  been 
cleared,  and  the  old  man,  stick  in  hand,  was 
sturdily  breaking  his  way  through  the  light  snow 
that  had  fallen  in  the  night.  Mrs.  Joseph,  sitting 
at  the  head  of  the  breakfast-table,  saw  him  first. 
"Goodness!"  she  cried,  dropping  her  knife 
and  fork  on  her  plate,  "here  comes  Uncle 
Elijah  !  Penny,  you  go  and  open  the  door  for 
him.  If  I  meet  him  at  the  door,  he  always  looks 
at  me  as  if  he'd  caught  a  hypocrite,  and  if  I 
don't  meet  him  he  isn't  any  better  pleased.  Of 
course  we've  a  better  breakfast  and  a  later 
breakfast  on  the  table  than  we  ever  have.  He 
never  keeps  Christmas,  and  he  don't  see  why 
any  one  else  should.  Joseph,  can't  you  hide 
those  chops?" 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

"  'Tain't  worth  while,"  said  Joseph,  easily. 
"  Let  him  see  something  to  find  fault  with  right 
away.  It'll  save  him  the  trouble  of  hunting. 
Sit  down,  dearie,  and  pass  the  coffee.  Pen, 
bring  your  uncle  Elijah  right  in  here.  Merry 
Christmas,  father!  Have  some  breakfast?" 

Mr.  Tousey  stood  in  the  doorway  and  looked 
over  the  table.  He  had  once  been  a  tall,  eagle- 
faced  man,  with  a  hooked  nose  and  erect  bear 
ing,  and  somewhere  back  in  his  youth  had  pos 
sibly  been  called  handsome.  Now,  from  his 
roughly  shod  feet  to  his  thick  gray  hair,  down 
the  whole  line  of  his  bent  figure,  he  had  not  one 
pleasing  feature,  with  the  exception  of  his  eyes. 
These  were  dark  and  piercing  whenever  he 
opened  the  two  gray-lidded  boxes  that  closed 
them  in,  but,  as  a  rule,  the  bushy  gray  eye 
brows  fully  concealed  this  one  remaining  apol 
ogy  for  personal  appearance.  He  spoke  as  if 
he  found  his  pleasure  in  a  satiric  mode  of  ad 
dress. 

"  Breakfast !  Humph  !  Mine  was  over  at 
six  o'clock.  Bacon  and  cold  bread.  When  Eli 
jah  works  for  Elijah,  he  rises  early  and  he 
works  hard.  I  came  over  to  look  through  my 
farm  accounts  with  you,  Joseph,  and  talk  over 
some  other  business.  I  won't  interrupt  your 
breakfast.  When  you  get  leisurely  through — 
92 


UNCLE  ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

leisurely  through.  No  ;  I  haven't  eaten  a  bite 
away  from  my  own  table  in  these  fifty  years — 
not  for  fifty  years.  If  everybody  ate  at  home 
there'd  be  less  trouble  in  the  end.  One  meal 
taken  out  breeds  three  to  be  given  in.  No  ;  I 
only  eat  at  home.  Annie,  there's  something 
in  the  old  attic  here  I  want  to  attend  to.  I'll 
wait  for  you  there,  Joseph.  I  don't  need  any 
showing  about  this  house,  Penniniah.  I  lived 
here  before  you  were  born." 

"  Hateful  old  thing !"  Mrs.  Joseph  was  say 
ing,  amiably,  when  Penniniah  came  back  from 
the  hallway,  where  she  had  gone  in  a  futile  at 
tempt  to  politely  point  out  the  attic  stairs. 
Penniniah  was  flushed,  and  complained,  in  an 
angry  whisper  : 

"  I  declare,  I  don't  know  why  it  is.  I  know 
you  have  the  farm  rent  all  ready  for  Uncle 
Elijah,  Joseph,  and  I  know  your  accounts  with 
him  are  ever  so  much  straighter  than  his  with 
you  —  all  our  chickens  dead,  indeed!  —  but,  I 
vow,  when  he  looks  out  at  us  from  under  his 
eyebrows  I  feel  exactly  as  if  he  knew  we'd  been 
tampering  with  the  farm  accounts,  and  as  if 
we  were  behind  with  the  rent." 

Mrs.  Joseph  laughed  comfortably,  eating  her 
muffins  and  chops  as  if  Uncle  Elijah  were  not. 

"  You  always  were  too  honest,  anyhow,  Pen," 
93 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S   CORNER  CUPBOARD 

she  said.  "  Joseph,  do  you  know,  she  once  bor 
rowed  a  dress  of  me  to  wear  on  a  two  days'  visit 
in  town — we  never  had  clothes  enough  for  both 
of  us — and  when  she  gave  me  the  dress  back,  I 
found  she  had  added  some  new  laces  on  the 
bosom  as  a  kind  of  dress  rent.  Did  you  ever 
hear  such  nonsense  ?  She  said  she  '  felt  more 
comfortable.'  I  never  was  like  that.  I  never 
remember  feeling  so  comfortable  as  I  was  the 
day  after  I  fooled  Uncle  Elijah.  What  worries 
me  is,  I'm  afraid  Uncle  Elijah  came  over  here 
to  open  that  question  of  our  living  with  him. 
He's  been  so  well  this  winter,  I  hoped  he'd  for 
gotten  about  it.  Do  you  think  he's  come  for 
that,  Joseph  ?" 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  Joseph,  calmly  ;  "  I  saw 
it  in  his  eyes.  Father  never  gives  up  anything, 
Annie." 

"Joseph!  Penniniah  !  What  was  that?" 
Mrs.  Joseph  was  not  a  nervous  woman,  and  was 
pre-eminently  a  woman  of  action  ;  but,  with 
the  other  and  less  active  members  of  the  house 
hold,  she  sat  petrified  at  the  breakfast -table, 
stunned  for  the  moment  by  what  was  first  an 
indistinct  rumble,  then  a  thunder -like  noise, 
from  above. 

"  It's  Uncle  Elijah  !"  gasped  Penniniah.  At 
the  same  moment  her  sister  and  Joseph  roused 
94 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

to  action.  They  were  both  out  of  the  door  and 
half-way  up  the  stairs  before  Penniniah  crossed 
the  threshold.  It  was  Annie  who  reached  the 
foot  of  the  attic  stairs  first,  and  when  Joseph 
joined  her  it  was  to  find  her  standing  checked 
and  bewildered,  gazing  up. 

"  Uncle  Elijah  !"  she  was  calling,  tremulously. 
"  Uncle  Elijah  !  Oh,  Joseph,  you  call  him  !" 

"Father  !"  thundered  Joseph's  alarmed  voice. 
"  Father !"  There  was  a  dead  silence  above 
them.  "What  is  that?"  asked  Joseph,  point 
ing  up  the  stair.  But  Annie  could  not  tell 
him. 

Half-way  down  the  narrow  stairway — one 
end  edged  upon  a  step,  the  other  end  complete 
ly  blocking  the  trap-door  that  opened  into  the 
attic — lay  a  curiously  shaped  wooden  obstruc 
tion. 

"Uncle  Elijah,"  quavered  Annie  again,  "do 
tell  us  where  you  are !  Joseph,  I  believe  he's 
under  that  thing !" 

An  angry,  rasping  voice  made  its  way  to 
them  past  the  obstruction. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Annie.  Don't  you  know 
a  corner  cupboard  when  you  see  it  ?  Of  course 
I'm  not  under  it.  It's  my  own,  and  I  wanted 
to  get  it  out  of  the  attic,  and  it's  stuck  some 
how.  You  and  Joseph  pull  when  I  push.  My 
95 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

soul !  when  I  was  young  I  knew  how  to  work. 
Pull,  can't  you  ?" 

But  Joseph  and  Annie  either  could  not  or 
would  not  pull.  They  only  stood  looking  at 
each  other. 

"  See  here,  father,"  called  Joseph.  "  I  don't 
doubt  the  cupboard's  yours,  but  why  in  the 
world  didn't  you  tell  us  you  wanted  it,  and  ask 
us  to  have  it  taken  out  for  you  ?" 

There  was  an  ominous  silence  from  above, 
and  then,  as  always  when  he  wished  to  be  most 
aggravating,  Mr.  Tousey  ignored  his  step-son's 
existence,  speaking  over  his  head  to  his  wife,  as 
if  she  alone  had  any  intelligence. 

"  Annie  Tousey,  are  you  there  ?  Then  will 
you  kindly,"  asked  Mr.  Tousey,  with  icy  civility 
— "will  you  kindly  open  the  lower  door  of  this 
cupboard  ?  The  one  down  there  by  you,  if  you 
please." 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  key  turning  in  a 
lock,  then  a  smothered  exclamation  from  Mrs. 
Joseph.  As  she  unlocked  the  door  of  the  cup 
board,  the  door  being  on  the  lower  side,  the 
contents  had  poured  out  on  her  head,  burying 
her  in  akind  of  magpie  collection  of  baby-clothes 
and  short-clothes,  small  shoes  and  large  shoes, 
boy's  clothing  and  lad's  garments,  man's  hats 
and  coats  and  waistcoats.  At  least  one  speci- 
96 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

men  of  everything  that  goes  to  clothe  human 
ity  up  through  the  seven  ages  of  man  was  there. 
Joseph  brushed  the  articles  aside  and  pulled  his 
gasping  wife  out  from  the  mass  as  Uncle  Eli 
jah's  voice  came  down  to  them  again. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  believe  the  cupboard's  mine 
now,  Annie  Tousey.  This  cupboard  ought  to 
be  full  of  my  own  clothing.  My  name's  on  ev 
ery  piece  of  them — or  it  was  when  I  left  them 
here.  I  packed  them  away  in  here  as  I  outgrew 
them.  Your  grandmother  gave  me  the  cup 
board  before  any  of  you  were  born  or  thought 
of.  I  forgot  to  take  it  away  when  I  married. 
If  Joseph  has  any  more  doubts — " 

Joseph  was  turning  over  the  clothing,  whis 
tling  softly  and  shaking  his  head. 

"Annie,"  he  whispered,  "ain't  this  awful? 
And  his  own  baby-clothes,  too,  mark  you  !  To 
think  he  ever  was  a  baby  !  Say,  father,  don't 
you  worry  any  more  about  proving  possession. 
Annie  and  I  know  these  things  are  yours.  We 
don't  want  them.  Lord  !  Annie,  he  might  as 
well  have  thrown  us  down  his  photograph. 
These  couldn't  belong  to  anybody  else." 

Annie,  with  an  awe-struck  expression  and  gin 
gerly  fingers,  was  also  turning  over  the  articles. 

"  Indeed,  Joseph,  I  never  saw  anything  so 
pitiful  in  all  my  life.  And  these  innocent 
G  97 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

little  baby-clothes,  they  make  me  want  to  cry. 
Penniniah,  do  look  at  these  things.  It's  been 
a  long  robbery  of  the  poor.  Poor  Uncle  Eli 
jah  !"  Penniniah  stood  at  a  little  distance, 
watching  the  inspection. 

"  It's  so  dreadful  even  Annie  can't  laugh  at 
it,"  said  she,  in  the  same  awed  Avhisper  her  sis 
ter  had  used  ;  and  then  Mrs.  Joseph  did  laugh, 
but  it  was  an  hysterical  sound,  interrupted  at 
once  by  Mr.  Tousey's  sarcastic  voice  from 
above  them. 

"  Joseph,  when  you  all  are  good  and  ready  to 
help  move  this  cupboard,  I'd  like  to  have  it 
done,  and  get  out  of  the  attic  and  go  home.  I 
know  it's  only  kind  of  wedged  on  the  lower 
step  down  there.  Lift  it  up  and  let  it  down 
easy.  I'll  hold  back  on  it." 

Mrs.  Joseph  hurried  to  one  side  of  the  cup 
board  as  her  husband  moved  to  the  other. 

"  Do  be  careful,  Joseph.  It's  awful  to  have 
a  heavy  thing  like  this  chase  you  down  the 
steps.  Uncle  Elijah  can't  hold  it  back." 

"  Well,  he  seems  to  be  doing  it,"  said  Joseph, 
rising  to  wipe  his  brow  after  a  fruitless  effort 
to  lift  the  cupboard.  "  Father,  can  you  hear 
me?  Let  her  go  up  there." 

"  I'm  not  touching  her,"  growled  the  cup 
board's  owner.  "  Why  don't  you  pull  ?" 


UNCLE  ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  said  Mrs.  Joseph,  who 
had  been  examining  the  stair.  She  had  climbed 
up  the  narrow  steps  as  far  as  the  space  allowed, 
and,  clinging  to  the  cupboard's  edge,  looked  up 
at  the  low  stair  ceiling.  "  Why,  Joseph,  it  isn't 
stuck  at  the  bottom  at  all  ;  it's  stuck  up  here  ! 
Don't  you  remember  grandmother  had  these 
attic  stairs  altered?  It  must  have  been  done 
after  the  cupboard  was  taken  up.  It'll  never 
on  earth  get  down  through  the  trap -door. 
We'll  have  to  push  it  back  and  get  it  out  of 
the  windows.  Uncle  Elijah,  we've  got  to  get 
the  cupboard  back  in  the  attic  before  we  can 
get  it  out.  You  lift  it  up,  and  we'll  push  it. 
Now,  all  together  when  I  count  three." 

Since  the  memorable  day  when  she  had  out 
witted  him,  Uncle  Elijah  had  continued  to  pay 
certain  tribute  to  his  niece  in  the  shape  of  a 
sarcastic  but  marked  respect  for  the  wisdom 
of  her  declared  judgments.  Now  he  did  not 
for  a  moment  question  her  decision.  They 
could  hear  evidence  of  his  obedience  in  his 
groans  of  effort.  Those  below  were  not  idle. 
Penniniah  lent  her  hand,  and  Joseph  and  An 
nie  worked  in  concert,  but  the  cupboard  re 
mained  immovable. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  to  do,"  panted  Mrs. 
Joseph,  drawing  back  at  last.  "Let  go  the 
99 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

cupboard,  Joseph.  We're  wasting  time  and 
strength,  and  not  moving  it  an  inch.  It's  so 
jammed,  Uncle  Elijah  can't  lift  it,  and  we  can't 
possibly  move  it  down  past  the  top  of  the  ceil 
ing,  because  it  physically  won't  go.  The  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  saw  the  cupboard  in  two,  and 
then  we  can  pull  the  pieces  down  and  let  your 
father  out.  We  can  put  the  cupboard  to 
gether  again  so  you'll  never  know  it's  been 
taken  apart,  Uncle  Elijah.  Get  the  saw,  Jo 
seph." 

"Joseph,  don't  you  do  anything  of  the  kind," 
commanded  Mr.  Tousey.  "  Annie  Tousey,  any 
body  'd  think  you  were  made  of  money,  to  hear 
you  talk.  You  can't  make  kindling-wood  out 
of  my  furniture.  I  guess  I'll  find  a  way  to  get 
this  cupboard  down,  and  without  waste,  either. 
If  I  don't,  I'll  stay  here  till  I  do.  What's  that, 
Annie?  No,  don't  you  go  calling  in  any  help 
from  the  neighbors.  I  ain't  going  to  be  taken 
out  of  an  attic  window  as  a  free  circus  for  all 
the  boys  in  the  country  round.  You  can  all  go 
away  from  down  there  and  leave  me.  I'll  call 
you  when  I  get  ready  to  make  a  move.  No,  it 
isn't  any  worse  to  be  shut  up  Christmas  day 
than  any-  other  day.  You'll  see  I'll  think  of  a 
way  to  get  me  out  that  ain't  window  or  door. 
Annie  Tousey,  you  used  to  have  a  head  on  your 
100 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER   CUPBOARD 

shoulders.  You  can  be  thinking  too,  if  you  get 
time.  Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  Uncle  Elijah,"  called  back  Mrs.  Joseph, 
but  it  was  in  the  voice  of  one  roused  from  deep 
absorption.  She  had  been  again  turning  over 
the  scattered  clothing  on  the  stairway,  and  now 
she  rose  and  faced  her  husband  and  sister  with 
a  light  of  prophecy  on  her  face.  In  her  hand 
was  a  small  fat  volume  of  manuscript  leaves. 
As  she  held  it  open,  the  leaves  showed  stained 
and  old  and  thumb-marked. 

"Children,"  whispered  Mrs.  Joseph,  solemn 
ly,  "  this  is  grandmother's  receipt-book  !  She 
must  have  kept  it  hidden  in  that  old  corner 
cupboard  in  the  attic.  I  know  now  exactly 
what  I'm  going  to  do.  There  isn't  any  way  for 
Uncle  Elijah  to  get  out,  and  the  Lord  has  de 
livered  him  into  my  hands." 

The  old  attic  in  which  Mr.  Tousey  suddenly 
found  himself  prisoner  was  one  of  those  spider- 
haunted,  quaint-raftered  garrets  that  belong  in 
old  houses.  At  either  end  of  the  hipped-roof 
was  a  window,  and  in  at  the  east  window  the 
sun  shone  with  that  dusty  brilliancy  that  motes 
lend  to  sunshine.  There  was  very  little  furni 
ture  of  any  kind  in  the  attic,  and  no  chairs, 
though  the  old  gentleman  sought  for  one  dili 
gently.  Neither  were  there  any  objects  of  in- 
101 


UNCLE    ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

terest  stored  here  to  divert  the  mind,  except 
the  one  corner  cupboard,  which  Mr.  Tousey  had 
already  partially  removed.  It  seemed,  there 
fore,  that  a  Christmas-tide  of  some  dreariness 
was  ahead  for  the  prisoner,  unless  he  bent  his 
pride  and  called  in  the  help  of  the  neigh 
bors,  which,  judging  from  the  uncompromising 
frown  that  had  settled  on  his  brow,  Mr.  Tousey 
had  no  intention  of  doing.  He  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  forenoon  pacing  the  floor 
back  and  forth,  his  brow  bent,  his  hands  behind 
his  back,  now  pausing  at  the  shady  west  window 
to  look  out  on  the  fields  of  snow,  now  at  the 
sunny  east  window  to  look  out  on  the  trees 
that  the  winter  sun  was  rapidly  divesting  of 
their  snow  robings.  It  was  about  twelve  o'clock, 
his  dinner  hour  at  home,  before  Mr.  Tousey 
condescended  to  improvise  a  chair  for  himself  ; 
and  when  he  did  finally  decide  to  make  an  old 
pig-skin-covered  trunk,  that  he  pulled  out  from 
under  the  eaves,  do  duty  as  a  seat,  he  sat  down 
upon  it  very  wearily.  The  garret  was  not  cold, 
for  the  weather  was  not  piercing,  but  as  soon 
as  Mr.  Tousey  ceased  his  walk  he  felt  the  chill, 
and  rose  to  find  a  remedy.  As  a  son  of  the 
house,  he  knew  that  a  large  register  in  the 
attic  floor  led  to  a  warm  room  below,  and  this 
register  he  immediately  sought  and  opened. 
1 02 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S   CORNER  CUPBOARD 

As  he  did  so  he  glanced  down  casually  into  the 
room  beneath,  then  stood  motionless,  peering 
through  the  open  iron-work,  his  brow  contract 
ing,  his  neck  lengthening  as  his  interest  grew. 
This  room  below  was,  as  he  knew,  the  guest- 
chamber,  and  though  no  one  was  then  present, 
he  could  see  that  some  one  had  lately  been 
there,  for  all  the  guest-room  furniture  had  been 
drawn  back  against  the  four  walls,  while  in  the 
cleared  centre  of  the  floor  was  set  a  large  table, 
spread  as  for  a  Christmas  banquet,  with  Christ 
mas  wreaths  and  holly  on  the  board,  and  with 
four  covers  laid,  one  at  each  of  the  four  sides. 
As  he  noted  these  details,  the  old  man's  aston 
ished  stare  turned  slowly  to  a  more  and  more 
keen  glance,  and  at  last  he  began  to  nod  sus 
piciously  to  himself.  A  grim  smile  spread  over 
his  features  as  he  half  shut  his  eyelids,  stand 
ing  there  thinking.  Finally  he  stooped,  and, 
lifting  the  register  bodily  from  its  setting,  dis 
closed  the  open  hole,  through  which,  kneeling 
with  difficulty  on  his  stiff  knees,  he  thrust  down 
his  old  white  head  for  a  closer  inspection  of 
the  room  below.  He  rose  at  last,  flushed  and 
trembling  with  his  exertions,  and  set  back  the 
iron-work  softly,  carefully  closing  the  register 
again. 

"  Annie's  up  to  some  of  her  tricks,"  he  said, 
103 


UNCLE  ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

as  he  returned  to  the  pig-skin  trunk.    "  I  guess 
I'll  wait  a  bit  and  see  what  happens." 

Nothing  happened  for  several  hours,  and  as 
he  sat  there  waiting  Mr.  Tousey  began  first  to 
doze  a  little,  with  his  head  back  on  the  bare 
rafters,  and  then  to  grow  singularly  restless, 
with  a  restlessness  which  was  more  than  the 
ordinary  impatience  of  waiting.  Now  and 
again  he  lifted  his  head  and  sniffed  the  air  with 
the  look  of  one  trying  to  place  something  half 
forgotten,  and  once  he  brought  his  hand  down 
on  his  knees  with  a  slap  of  decision,  as  if  he  had 
identified  what  he  had  been  seeking  to  place. 
As  time  went  on  the  most  untrained  nostrils 
would  have  detected  delectable  suggestions  in 
the  unseen,  impalpable,  but  none  the  less  rich 
ly  freighted  smoke  that  came  floating  up  into 
the  attic.  The  merest  novice  could  not  have 
mistaken  for  anything  but  baking  gingerbread 
the  hot  gingerbread  waves  of  air,  and  roasting 
turkey  and  frying  oysters  and  bacon  were  no 
less  unmistakable  in  their  aroma.  But  there 
was  a  something  in  this  hearty  atmosphere  that 
seemed  each  moment  to  more  and  more  be 
wilder  Mr.  Tousey.  He  still  sat  with  his  head 
back  against  the  rafters,  every  now  and  then 
sniffing  the  air  reminiscently,  sometimes  made 
restless,  sometimes  apparently  soothed,  by 
104 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S   CORNER   CUPBOARD 

whatever  past  he  was  living  over,  and  so  ab 
sorbed  that  he  scarcely  roused  when  at  last, 
with  a  sound  of  iron  clinking  on  iron,  the 
same  register  which  he  had  opened  and  lift 
ed  out  began  to  rise  slowly  from  its  setting 
and  fell  to  one  side  on  the  floor.  From  the 
vacant  hole,  like  a  jack-in-the-box  from  its 
hiding-place,  rose  up  Mrs.  Joseph's  head,  her 
eyes  searching  the  attic,  her  brow  a  little  anx 
ious,  and  her  face  flushed  as  only  a  cooking- 
stove  can  flush  the  human  countenance.  There 
was  but  room  for  her  head  to  emerge.  By  an 
effort  she  added  one  hand,  and  a  head  is  all  one 
actually  needs  in  conversation,  while  one  hand 
can  lend  enough  freedom  of  gesture  to  ac 
company  speech.  Her  voice  was  that  of  a 
tired  woman,  none  the  less  it  rang  with  cheer 
ful  determination. 

"  Uncle  Elijah,"  said  Mrs.  Joseph,  quickly,  "I 
hope  you're  not  tired  of  waiting  for  your  Christ 
mas  dinner.  You  haven't  any  chair,  have  you? 
I  wish  I  could  push  one  up  through  this  hole, 
but  it  won't  go.  If  you'll  pull  that  trunk  you're 
sitting  on  close  to  the  register,  it'll  be  almost 
like  sitting  at  the  table  with  us.  I've  put 
your  plate  right  under  the  hole,  and  I'm 
going  to  fill  it  and  hand  your  Christmas 
dinner  up  to  you  by  way  of  this  step-ladder 
105 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER   CUPBOARD 

I'm    standing   on.      I'll    hand   up    the    soup 
first." 

Mrs.  Joseph's  head  vanished  before  Mr. 
Tousey  could  reply,  and  up  through  the  hole 
thus  left  open  came  a  direct  whiff  of  soup  that 
brought  him  trembling  to  his  feet.  He  had 
been  fasting  since  that  frugal  early  breakfast 
of  bread  and  bacon,  but  it  was  not  hunger  that 
drew  his  faltering  feet  irresistibly  to  the  edge 
of  the  register.  He  told  himself,  as  he  dragged 
the  pig-skin  trunk  along  with  him,  that  even 
for  the  few  moments  he  must  spend  by  that 
opening  he  was  too  old,  too  tired,  and  too 
agitated  to  stand ;  but  once  seated  on  the  trunk 
and  again  peering  down  the  open  hole,  astonish 
ment  held  him  motionless.  On  the  table  before 
him  were  rich  moulded  jellies  and  richer  cakes, 
icings  as  smooth  as  glass,  and  whipped  syllabubs 
that  stood  alone,  all  as  visions  of  what  had  been 
and  was  now  no  more  ;  while  slowly  obscuring 
the  remoter  view,  up  the  ladder,  approaching 
him  nearer  and  nearer,  came  Annie  with  a  plate 
of  soup  in  her  hand.  From  that  plate  steamed 
an  odor  that  only  the  gumbo  soup  made  by 
one  hand  had  ever  given  off,  and  in  the  plate 
itself,  along  with  the  delightful  little  vegetable 
bits  that  belong  in  all  gumbo  soups,  swam  crisp 
little  batter-balls  that  Madam  Tousey,  and  only 
1 06 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

Madam  Tousey,  had  ever  known  how  to  create. 
Before  Mr.  Tousey  could  recover  breath  enough 
to  speak,  Mrs.  Joseph  had  flung  the  napkin  she 
was  carrying  over  her  shoulder  across  her 
uncle's  knees,  and  set  the  soup  carefully  on  the 
pig-skin  trunk  beside  him.  She  laid  in  it  the 
tempting  silver  spoon,  and  then  she  disappear 
ed  as  quickly  as  she  had  come.  Mr.  Tousey 
was  alone  in  the  attic  with  the  gumbo  soup. 
Under  his  very  nose  stood  the  mess  of  pottage, 
steaming,  beckoning,  reeking  with  invitation. 
The  result,  so  far  as  Mr.  Tousey  was  concerned, 
was  purely  mechanical.  He  was  a  man  in  a 
dream.  Up  the  ladder,  following  the  soup, 
trooped  oysters  fried  in  bacon  blankets,  turkey 
that  he  knew  had  been  stuffed  with  a  dressing 
which  was  also  Madam  Tousey's  precious  secret. 
Still,  as  in  a  dream,  Mr.  Tousey  ate  on  and  on. 
With  misty  eyes  he  saw  the  plates  coming  and 
going,  resting  upon  his  knees  for  too  short  de 
lectable  moments,  then  disappearing,  only  to  be 
replaced  by  others  as  bewildering.  The  sound 
of  pleasant  voices  and  laughter  and  family 
chatter  came  to  him  from  below.  He  had  room 
for  but  three  sensations — astonishment,  taste, 
and  a  kind  of  dismay.  Every  dish,  from  soup 
to  salad,  was  prepared  in  some  fashion  that  dif 
fered  from  the  ordinary,  but  in  every  case  Mr. 
107 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

Tousey  recognized  the  difference  as  a  lover  rec 
ognizes  a  long-lost  love. 

When  the  ice-cream  came  at  last,  his  spoon 
hovered  above  it  in  a  hand  that  trembled. 
Would  it  —  could  it  be  possible  that  it  might 
contain  in  its  flavoring  that  subtle,  nutty, 
spirituous,  defined,  yet  indescribable  tastiness 
that  had  made  Madam  Tousey's  cream  fa 
mous  through  all  the  county  ?  Mr.  Tousey 
raised  the  spoon  slowly  to  his  mouth.  It 
did! 

"Uncle  Elijah,"  said  Mrs.  Joseph,  making 
one  of  her  sudden  appearances  through  the 
register,  "  I  don't  know  why  in  the  world  I 
haven't  thought  of  it  before.  It's  just  this 
moment  come  to  me  how  to  get  you  out  with  a 
turn  of  the  hand.  I'm  going  to  hand  you  up  a 
block  and  tackle,  and  you  can  tie  the  block  to 
that  rafter  over  the  cupboard  and  pass  the  end 
of  the  rope  down  here  through  the  register, 
then  we'll  all  hang  on  it  and  pull  the  cupboard 
right  up  into  the  ceiling  and  let  you  out.  Here's 
your  coffee,  sir,  and  just  as  soon  as  you've  drunk 
that,  unless  you'd  like  more  ice  -  cream  first — 
Why, Uncle  Elijah!" 

Mr.  Tousey  was  wiping  tears  of  emotion 
from  his  eyes  with  his  large  red  silk  handker 
chief. 

108 


UNCLE    ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

"  It's  nothing,"  he  said,  recovering,  and  look 
ing  down  appealingly  into  Annie's  face  ;  "  only 
I  don't  care  about  being  gotten  out  of  here, 
Annie  Tousey.  I  don't  care  at  all.  I'd  just  as 
lief  stay  forever  right  here  on  this  pig -skin 
trunk  and  have  you  pass  things  up  to  me. 
Honey,  you  say  you've  got  a  little  more  of  that 
ice-cream  ?" 

Mrs.  Joseph's  face  disappeared  instantly,  but 
in  a  moment  rose  again  into  sight  —  radiant, 
yet  subdued,  as  a  full  harvest  moon  rises  and 
shines  on  a  gathered  harvest. 

"Uncle  Elijah,"  she  said,  wooingly,  "you  can 
have  the  cream  if  you  want,  but  here's  some 
pie  I  think  you'll  like  better.  It's  a  deep  family 
pie,  the  kind  grandmother  used  to  make.  If 
you  like  this  one,  I'll  promise  you  to  have  this 
kind  of  ice-cream  for  our  dinner  every  summer 
Sunday,  and  the  family  pie  for  dinner  every 
winter  Sunday,  or  anything  else  you  may  hap 
pen  to  fancy."  Her  manner  grew  fairly  porten 
tous  in  its  significance  as  she  paused  for  his 
reply.  "  These  are  to  be  no  pie-crust  promises, 
Uncle  Elijah,  I  assure  you.  If  I  promise,  it 
shall  be  exactly  as  I  say." 

Mr.  Tousey  understood.  He  looked  at  Annie, 
and  he  looked  at  the  pie.  It  was  three  inches 
deep.  It  had  the  bosom  of  a  swan,  with  just 
109 


UNCLE   ELIJAH'S  CORNER  CUPBOARD 

that  melting  tint  of  brown  that  marks  the 
perfect  pie. 

"Annie,"  said  Uncle  Elijah,  solemnly,  "it 
shall  be  exactly  as  you  say."  And  he  held  out 
his  hand  for  the  pie. 


AN    I.  O.  U. 

Dramatis  Persona  :    MR.  ATWOOD  and  Ai  INE,  his  ward. 
Time  :    A  1st  of  April.     Morning. 

ACT    I 

The  curtain  rises  on  a  lawyer's  office,  the  walls 
lined  with  sad-colored  books,  the  shelves  tipped 
with  dark  green  leather  and  brass -headed 
nails,  once  bright,  but  now  succumbing  to  the 
prevailing  neutral  tint.  The  heavy  mahogany 
chairs  are  covered  with  the  same  dark  leather. 
The  green  felt  top  of  the  desk  at  which  MR. 
ATWOOD  is  discovered  sitting  is  black  where 
the  ink  spots  are  new,  rusty  where  they  are 
old,  and  half  covered  by  papers  and  pamphlets. 
The  April  sunshine  streams  in  through  an 
open  window  at  the  left  of  the  desk,  and  falls 
on  a  deep  chair  placed  there.  A  door  at  the 
back  of  the  room  opens  softly. 

(Enter  ALINE,  dressed  as  a  school-girl.  She 
moves  timidly  across  the  floor,  and  pauses  be 
fore  the  desk.) 

in 


AN    I.O.U. 

Madame  Armand  say  when  she  knows  that 
you  have  run  away  from  her  to  your  stern 
guardian  ? 

Aline.  You  are  not  stern. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Ah,  you  do  not  know  me.  I 
am  going  to  be  very  stern  now. 

Aline  (with  a  quick  glance).  You  couldn't. 
(She  smiles?) 

Mr.  Atwood  (smiling  a/so,  and  shaking  his 
head).  No,  I'm  afraid  you  are  right.  But  you 
have  not  yet  told  me  what  Madame  Armand 
is  going  to  say  to  this  escapade  ? 

Aline.  Nothing  —  she  won't  know.  I  slipped 
away  so  cleverly. 

Mr.  Atwood  (cautiously).  Then  you  did  not 
mean  to  run  away  forever? 

Aline  (laughing).  Oh  no;  did  you  think  so? 
I  only  wanted  to  see  you  quite  alone.  I  had 
something  to  say  to  you. 

Mr.  Atwood  (with  a  breath  of  relief).  Ah  ! 
Shall  you  be  afraid  when  you  go  back  to  Ma 
dame  Armand,  if  she  should  find  you  out, 
Aline  ? 

Aline.  No-o.    But  she  won't. 

Mr.  Atwood.  I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  to 
take  her  into  our  confidence,  my  child. 

Aline.  You  are  not  going  to  tell  her  of  me  ? 

Mr.  AtWodd.  I  am  going  to  take  you  back 
114 


AN    I.O.U. 

to  her  myself.  But  she  shall  say  nothing  to 
you.  I  promise  you  that.  I  will  come  to  the 
school  to-night,  and  you  shall  then  see  me  en 
tirely  alone,  and  tell  me  all  you  want ;  but  I 
must  take  you  back  to  Madame  Armand — and 
at  once,  Aline  ! 

Aline.  You  are  going  to  drive  me  away  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  I  am  going  to  drive  you  away 
in  a  carriage,  with  myself  on  the  seat  beside 
you,  that's  all. 

Aline  {passionately  withdrawing  from  him). 
If  you  send  me  away  now,  I  will  never  come 
back  to  you.  I  am  not  a  baby.  I  won't  be 
taken  home  by  my  hand,  and  have  my  nurse 
told  not  to  scold  me.  I  am  going  back  alone. 
(As  she  reaches  the  door  MR.  ATWOOD  follows 
and  detains  her.) 

Mr.  Atwood  (gravely).  Stay,  Aline.  I  will 
listen  now,  my  dear.  (She  resists  for  a  moment ', 
but  is  conquered  by  a  flood  of  excited  tears.  MR. 
ATWOOD  leads  her  to  the  arm-cJiair  by  the  win 
dow?) 

Mr.  Atwood.  Sit  here  and  rest,  first. 

Aline  (rubbing  her  eyes  with  her  Jiands  child 
ishly?)  May  I  take  off  my  h-hat  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  Of  course  you  may.  See,  here 
is  my  chair  close  by  yours,  and  here  am  I 
in  it.  Now,  what  is  it  ?  (He  unties  her  hat 
"5 


AN    I.O.  U. 

ribbons,  lays  the  hat  on  the  floor,  and  sits  in  a 
chair  near  ALINE.) 

Aline  (still  brokenly).  I  want  to  know  what 
you  are  going  to  do  with  me  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  Do  with  you? 

Aline.  Yes ;  you  are  not  going  to  do  what 
Madame  Arm  and  says,  are  you  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  What  does  she  say? 

Aline  (indignantly).  That  I  am  to  spend  next 
winter  with  her,  and  that  she  is  to  take  me  out 
into  what  she  calls  "  de  vorld  " — and  that  you 
said  so. 

Mr.  Atwood  {frowning  slightly).  Madame 
Armand  should  have  let  me  tell  you  my  plans. 
Why  do  you  object,  Aline  ? 

Aline.  Then  you  did  say  it. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Madame  Armand  knows  the 
world,  and  could  show  it  to  you  very  well 
and  pleasantly.  She  has  done  so  with  many 
other  girls.  And  you  like  her,  do  you  not  ?  I 
thought  so. 

Aline.  I  have  not  minded  learning  from  her, 
but  is  that  to  be  my  home? 

Mr.  Atwood.  It  has  been  your  home  for  many 
years.  You  called  it  that  just  now  yourself. 

Aline.  She  can't  even  say  home  in  her  lan 
guage.  That's  not  a  home.  It's  only  the  place 
I  live. 

116 


AN    I.O.  U. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Doesn't  that  mean  home? 

Aline  (reproachfully).  You  know  it  does  not. 

Mr.  Atwood  (smiling).  No,  not  always,  I  ad 
mit.  I  have  no  home  myself,  you  know,  out 
side  of  my  club.  But  I  thought  you  were  happy 
with  Madame  Armand. 

Aline.  I  was  quite  willing  to  go  to  school  to 
her,  but  next  year  will  be  different.  I  shall  be 
a  woman  then,  and  I  did  not  think  I  should 
have  to  wait  longer  than  that. 

Mr.  Atwood  (perplexed).  For  what  ? 

Aline.  To  live  with  you. 

Mr.  Atwood.  With  me,  my  dear  ! 

Aline.  If  I  had  known  only  Madame  Armand, 
it  would  have  satisfied  me,  I  suppose,  but  I  was 
seeing  you  always,  and  always  looking  forward 
to  our  living  together.  You  surely  remember 
our  plans  ? 

Mr.  Ativood  (after  a  moment's  silence).  Tell 
me  them  over  again,  Aline. 

Aline  (siirprised).  Why,  you  used  to  be  say 
ing  it  over  and  over  again  whenever  you  came 
to  see  me.  You  used  to  say  we  should  live  to 
gether  in  a  little  house,  and  that  you  would 
never  marry,  and  I  should  keep  the  house  for 
you.  Surely  you  have  not  forgotten  ! 

Mr.  Atwood.  When  and  where  did  we  last 
speak  of  that  ? 

117 


AN    I.O.  U. 

Aline.  In  the  garden  at  Madame's  summer 
home.  You  were  sitting  on  a  bench,  and  you 
lifted  me  on  your  knee,  and  we  even  decided 
on  our  furniture. 

Mr.  Atwood  (rising,  and  looking  out  of  the 
window,  his  back  to  ALINE).  And  you  never 
remember  my  saying  this  after  you  grew  too 
old  to  be  perched  on  my  knee  ? 

Aline.  No,  but  I  never  forgot  it.  That  has 
always  been  home  to  me.  Why  don't  you  speak 
to  me  ?  I  believe  you  don't  want  me. 

Mr.  Atwood  (turning  quickly).  Dear  child, 
you  must  never  think  that.  (He  rests  his  hand 
on  the  back  of  her  chair,  looking  down  at  her.) 
How  can  I  make  you  understand  ?  You  know 
about  as  much  of  the  world  as  the  roar  of  life  out 
there  in  the  street  might  tell  you,  and  that  is  all. 

Aline  (eagerly).  You  could  teach  it  to  me — 
and  far  better  than  Madame  Armand. 

Mr.  Atwood.  No ;  here  I  have  only  a  tiny 
corner  of  life  to  show  you,  and  see  how  I  stam 
mer  and  stutter  over  it.  (He  sits  again  by 
ALINE,  and  covers  her  hands,  which  lie  in  her  lap, 
with  his  own.)  Tell  me,  my  dear,  did  you  ever 
see  just  such  a  household  as  you  describe?  Did 
you  ever  hear  or  read  of  one  ?  Run  over  your 
schoolmates'  lives — what  became  of  them  as 
they  went  out  from  the  school  ? 
118 


AN    I.  O.  U. 

Aline  (sadly}.  That  is  not  the  same  thing. 
They  all  had  a  father  or  a  mother  to  go  to,  or 
at  least  an  uncle  or  an  aunt.  I  have  never  had 
any  one  but  you,  and  now  I  do  think  you  don't 
want  me.  (She  tries  to  withdraw  her  liands. 
MR.  ATWOOD  holds  them  fast.} 

Mr.  Atwood  (earnestly}.  Aline,  I  do  want 
you.  What  could  give  me  greater  happiness 
than  to  keep  you  with  me  always,  and  have 
you  care  for  me,  and  I  for  you?  I  have  no 
home  either,  you  know.  Do  you  suppose  I 
am  never  lonely?  Remember  all  that,  and 
then  realize  how  hard  it  must  be  for  me  to 
say  no. 

Aline  (tearfully}.  Then  what  makes  you 
say  it? 

Mr.  Atwood  (very  gently}.  Think  a  moment, 
dear  child.  I  am  an  old  man  to  you,  but  the 
world  still  calls  me  young;  and  you  are  a  child 
to  me,  but  the  world  would  call  you  a  woman. 
We  are  too  young  and  too  old,  and  we  cannot 
possibly  stretch  out  the  years  between  us,  try 
as  we  might.  Do  you  understand  now  ?  Look 
about  your  own  small  world,  and  you  will  see 
that  kind  of  household  only  belonging  to  mar 
ried  people. 

Aline  (sobbing).  Then  why  don't  you  marry 
me? 

119 


AN    I.O.U. 

Mr.  Atwood  (dropping  ALINE'S  hands  and 
rising  hastily).  My  dear  child  (he  continues 
with  effort),  I  must  have  done  very  wrongly, 
but  it  was  without  intention  to  deceive  or  play 
on  your  feelings.  I  drew  a  pathetic  picture  of 
a  homeless  life  which  does  not  exist,  and  of  a 
loneliness  which  is  not  mine.  I  am  neither 
lonely  nor  unhappy.  I  am  not  even  uncom 
fortable,  and  you  must  not  feel  sorry  for  me, 
Aline.  (ALINE  sobs  on,  and  MR.  ATWOOD  con 
tinues,  entreatingly.)  Suppose  I  were  to  marry 
you,  my  dear.  Can't  you  see  that  I  should  be 
doing  a  very  wicked  thing? 

Aline  (brushing  away  her  tears).  No,  you 
would  not  be  wicked.  If  you  knew  how  I  hated 
the  thought  of  being  with  Madame  Armand, 
you  wouldn't  say  so. 

Mr.  Atwood  (his  expression  relaxing  suddenly 
into  relief  and  amusement).  Child,  what  an  un 
necessary  scare  you  gave  me.  Come,  dry  your 
eyes,  and  we  will  talk  it  all  over.  What  a 
watery  little  woman  it  is  !  See  how  you  have 
tear-stained  your  white  glove.  It  is  quite  wet. 
Let  me  pull  it  off  for  you.  (He  sits  down  again 
and  draws  her  glove  from  her  hand,  finger  by 
finger.)  Now  we  will  talk  this  all  out  comfort 
ably,  and  leave  nothing  to  think  of  afterwards. 
Did  you  suppose  I  could  be  tempted  into  rob- 
120 


AN   I.O.U. 

bing  baby-carriages?  And  what  a  baby  you 
are,  Aline  ! 

Aline  (with  dignity],  I  shall  be  eighteen  very 
soon. 

Mr.  Atwood.  And  I  shall  be  two-score  in  a 
few  years.  How  would  you  like  being  ham 
pered  with  a  gray-haired  husband  then  ? 

Aline.  I  should  like  it  dearly. 

Mr.  Atwood  (hastily).  You  don't  know  what 
you  would  like  when  you  are  a  woman.  Do 
you  know  what  even  my  best  friends  would 
say  ?  That  I  had  kept  a  little  heiress  in  a  pill 
box,  and  married  her  before  she  had  a  chance 
to  peep  out ;  and  it  would  be  quite  true. 

Aline  (impatiently).  If  having  money  is  only 
to  make  me  unhappy,  I  shall  give  it  all  to  Ma 
dame  Armand  the  day  I  come  of  age. 

Mr.  Atwood  (gravely).  Even  then,  my  child, 
it  would  not  be  honorable  for  me  to  marry  you. 

Aline  (reproachfully).  And  you  care  more  for 
that  than  for  me? 

Mr.  Atwood.  No ;  you  have  been  as  my  own 
child  for  so  many  years,  that  I  am  afraid,  if 
your  happiness  and  my  honor  were  put  in  the 
scales,  my  honor  would  kick  the  beam.  But  it 
is  your  happiness  that  I  am  considering  now ; 
for  I  could  not  make  you  happy,  try  as  I  might. 

Aline.  Why  not? 

121 


AN    I.O.U. 

Mr.  Atwood  (decidedly).  Because  you  do  not 
love  me. 

Aline.  I  do  love  you. 

Mr.  Atwood.  No,  you  do  not,  or  you  would  be 
less  sure  of  it,  and  you  would  not  tell  me  so. 
You  are  fond  of  me,  as  I  am  of  you,  but  you  do 
not  love  me,  my  dear. 

Aline.  What  is  the  difference? 

Mr.  Atwood  (smiling].  You  will  know  some 
day,  and  then  I  will  let  you  marry  him. 

Aline.  How  shall  I  know  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  Ah,  that  was  just  the  order  of 
question  I  wanted  to  leave  Madame  Armand  to 
answer. 

Aline.  No;  tell  me  yourself. 
'  Mr.  Atwood.  Well,  first  of  all,  you  will  know 
without  asking,  and  deny  it,  even  to  yourself. 
You  will  stand  in  the  shadow  of  a  needle,  and 
fancy  yourself  concealed.  You  will  be  troubled 
when  with  him,  and  miserable  when  away  from 
him.  And  then  I  will  give  you  to  him,  and  not 
before. 

Aline.  But  I  am  miserable  at  the  thought  of 
being  away  from  you. 

Mr.  Atwood.  You  are  miserable  at  the 
thought  of  being  with  Madame  Armand.  Tell 
me  the  truth,  Aline ;  do  you  ever  miss  me  after 
I  leave  you  ? 

122 


AN    I.O.  U. 

Aline.  Indeed  I  do. 

Mr.  Atwood.  How  much,  and  for  how  long? 

Aline  (thoughtfully}.  I  don't  have  much  time 
between  lessons,  but  I  want  you  to  come  back 
soon,  and  I  always  cry  until  the  class-bell  rings 
after  you  go.  (MR.  ATWOOD  stoops  and  kisses 
her  hand  with  exaggerated  gallantry^) 

Mr.  Atwood.  That  is  good  of  you,  Aline  ;  you 
miss  me  more  than  I  thought,  my  dear.  But 
some  day,  although  your  eyes  may  cry  less, 
your  heart  will  cry  more.  You  won't  want  him 
back  soon,  but  at  once  and  forever.  And  no 
lesson-books  nor  class-bells  on  earth  will  be  able 
to  make  you  forget.  Then  you  will  remember 
your  old  guardian's  words,  and  laugh  at  the 
idea  of  loving  him. 

Aline.  No ;  for  indeed  I  do  love  you. 

Mr.  Atwood  (tenderly}.  I  know  you  do,  and 
I  love  you  dearly,  my  child.  We  are  not 
ashamed  to  confess  our  loves,  are  we  ?  There 
lies  the  defect. 

Aline.  You  don't  love  me,  or  you  wouldn't 
let  me  be  so  unhappy. 

Mr.  Atwood.  You  are  not  to  be  unhappy. 

Aline.  I  shall  be  unhappy  with  Madame  Ar- 
mand. 

Mr.  Atwood.  You  are  not  to  be  left  with 
Madame  Armand. 

123 


AN    I.  O.  U. 

Aline  (radiantly).  You  mean  to  keep  me 
yourself,  after  all  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  Practically,  since  you  are  foolish 
enough  to  want  me.  I  don't  see  it  all  quite 
clearly  yet,  but  do  you  think  you  would  like 
to  live  with  my  sister  ? 

Aline.  With  your  sister?  I  thought  you 
said — 

Mr.  Atwood.  I  will  take  a  house  for  you  both 
near  my  own  rooms.  She  is  a  widow,  you 
know,  and,  being  quite  as  mistaken  as  yourself 
regarding  me,  will  do  all  I  wish.  You  will  see 
me  every  day,  and  oftener,  perhaps.  That  will 
be  your  own  home,  and  my  second  home.  Will 
that  satisfy  you  ? 

Aline  (starting  to  her  feet}.  You  are  in  ear 
nest  ? 

Mr.  Atwood  (rising  also).  In  dead  earnest. 

Aline.  I  can't,  no,  I  can't  believe  it! 

Mr.  Atwood  (laughing).  Shut  your  eyes  and 
try  hard,  and,  whatever  you  do,  don't  cry  again. 
You  have  been  a  naughty  child,  and  gained  all 
you  cried  for.  Now  be  good,  and  thank  me 
prettily.  (ALINE,  with  a  cry  of  delight,  clasps 
her  hands  on  Jus  arm  and  lifts  her  face,  offering 
him  her  lips.  MR.  ATWOOD  looks  at  her  and 
hesitates.  He  lays  his  finger  lightly  on  her  lips) 
No ;  we  will  keep  those  for  the  lover  to  come. 
124 


AN    I.  O.  U. 

You  are  pleased,  then  ?  You  want  nothing 
more  ?  Think,  now,  while  I  am  in  the  melting 
mood. 

Aline  (knitting  her  brows  with  difficulty).  I 
don't  think  of  anything  more  that  I  could 
want. 

Mr.  Atwood (quizzically).  Not  even  me? 

Aline.  You  said  I  should  see  you. 

Mr.  Atwood.  And  you  don't  want  to  marry 
me  now  ? 

Aline  (shyly).  I  do,  if  you  want  me  to.  You 
have  been  so  good. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Aline,  confess  the  truth.  Now 
that  you  have  escaped  Madame  Armand,  you 
want  to  throw  me  over.  You  never  loved  me 
at  all. 

Aline.  It  was  you  who  said  that.  I  told  you 
I  did. 

Mr.  Atwood.  In  the  past  tense  already,  I 
vow  !  Do  you  ? 

Aline  (hanging her  head).  If  all  that  you  told 
me  just  now  is  true,  then  perhaps  I  don't. 

Mr.  Atwood  (laughing  aloud).  Very  well, 
then,  I  shall  never  ask  you  to  marry  me  again. 
I  have  been  refused  by  a  chit  of  seventeen,  on 
this  first  day  of  April. 

Aline  (looking  at  him  thoughtfully).  You 
have  been  so  good  to  me.  Will  you  take  me 
125 


AN    I.  O.  U. 

home  now  ?  (She  moves  apart  from  him,  and 
speaks  softly,  lowering  her  eyes.)  I  shall  love 
you  forever  for  what  you  did  then.  But  all  the 
same — 

Mr.  Atwood  (looks  at  her  keenly.  Aside}.  Have 
I  said  too  much?  (Aloud.)  Here  is  your  hat, 
Aline.  (He  lifts  her  hat  from  the  floor  and 
watches  her  tie  it  on.  ALINE  avoids  his  eyes. 
They  move  to  the  door,  which  MR.  ATWOOD 
opens.  As  he  stands  aside  for  her  to  pass  out, 
ALINE  glances  back  over  her  shoulder?) 

Aline  {mischievously).  You  must  never  tell 
any  one  that  I  offered  myself  to  you,  you  know. 

Mr.  Atwood  (following  her).  Aline  ! 
CURTAIN 


ACT    II 

Scene  :  The  same. 
Time  :  One  year  later. 

Curtain  rises  on  MR.  ATWOOD  seated  at  his  desk, 
looking  at  the  calendar  he  holds  in  his  hand. 
The  date  marked  is  April  ist.  He  lays  down 
the  calendar  thoughtfully,  draws  his  paper 
towards  him,  dips  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and  begins 
126 


AN   I.O.  U. 

to  write.     The  door  at  the  back  of  the  room 
opens  softly. 

(Enter  ALINE,  dressed  in  walking-costume.  She 
crosses  the  floor  on  tiptoe,  and  stands  laughing 
at  the  other  side  of  the  desk.} 

Aline.  How  angry  are  you  this  time?  (As 
MR.  ATWOOD  looks  up  and  attempts  to  rise,  she 
motions  him  back.}  Don't  move;  I  am  coming 
to  you.  (She  walks  around  the  desk  and  sinks 
in  a  chair  by  his  side,  still  laughing,  and  hold 
ing  out  her  hand.}  You  have  not  bade  me  good- 
morning  yet. 

Mr.  Atwood  (holding  the  hand  she  offers}. 
Aline,  you  are  incorrigible.  How  did  you  get 
here  this  time  ? 

Aline.  In  the  same  way — a  cab.  Now,  why 
don't  you  scold  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  Because  I  cannot,  and  you  know 
it.  This  is  a  flagrant  abuse  of  power.  Is  my 
sister  in  town  ? 

Aline.  Oh  no,  she  is  at  the  sea-side,  where 
you  left  her. 

Mr.  Atwood  (reproachfully].  And  where  I  left 
you. 

Aline.  I  know ;  I  have  run  away  again.  I 
took  the  early  train  this  morning.  I  wanted 
to  see  you. 

127 


AN   I.O.  U. 

Mr.  Atwood.  I  should  be  more  than  human 
to  scold  now.  That  was  cleverly  done,  Aline. 
What  do  you  want?  Experience,  alas,  has 
taught  you  that  you  have  only  to  ask. 

Aline.  I  wanted  to  see  you — 

Mr.  Atwood.  You  saw  me  three  days  ago. 

Aline.  I  wanted  to  see  you  again.  Are  you 
busy? 

Mr.  A  twood.  No  ;  as  usual,  I  am  at  your  dis 
posal. 

Aline.  You  were  writing  when  I  came  in. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Did  you  expect  to  find  me  kick 
ing  my  heels  ?  No ;  to  tell  the  truth,  if  a  penny 
postage-stamp  had  been  put  on  my  thoughts,  I 
am  afraid  you  would  have  received  them. 

Aline  (opening  her  purse  laughingly,  selects  a 
coin,  which  she  lays  on  the  table].  A  penny  for 
your  thoughts,  then,  as  you  have  put  your  price 
on  them. 

Mr.  Atwood  (taking possession  of  the  command 
laughing  also).  I  will  give  you  an  I.  O.  U.  See 
here.  (He  takes  up  his  pen  and  writes  rapidly. 
ALINE  looks  over  his  shoulder?) 

Mr.  Atwood  (reads).  "  I.  O.  U.  my  thoughts, 
to  be  delivered  in  ripe  season."  Does  that 
answer  ?  (ALINE  takes  the  paper,  folds  it,  and 
lays  it  away  in  her  reticule  with  mock  careful 
ness?) 

128 


AN    I.O.  U. 

Mr.  Atwood  (watching her}.  And  now,  what? 
I  am  not  vain  enough  to  believe  that  you  only 
wanted  to  see  me.  Let  me  think.  You  were 
afraid  I  would  buy  your  new  dining-room 
table  without  you,  after  all.  Is  that  it  ? 

Aline.  I  told  you  I  didn't  care  about  select 
ing  it. 

Mr.  Atwood.  And  I  told  you  I  would  not  buy 
it  without  you.  I  am  a  creature  of  habit.  The 
old  table  is  just  right.  Suppose  your  new  ta 
ble  proved  too  wide  for  you  to  hand  my  coffee- 
cup  across  yourself  ?  I  should  never  dine  with 
you  again,  if  you  invited  me  every  night.  You 
must  go  with  me  and  test  it. 

Aline.  Indeed  I  shall  not.  What  would  the 
cabinet-maker  think  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  He  would  think  me  an  old  fool, 
I  imagine,  and  (pausing  and  looking  at  ALINE) 
I  fear  he  would  be  quite  right.  I  must  content 
myself  with  taking  him  the  measurement,  I  sup 
pose.  But  come,  Aline,  I  want  you  to  sit  over 
there  in  the  arm-chair  by  the  window,  where 
you  sat  the  first  time  you  came  here,  one  year 
ago  to-day.  I  have  held  it  sacred  to  you  since 
then.  (He  leads  ALINE  to  the  arm-chair,  and 
sits  near  her.)  I  sat  just  here,  opposite  to  you, 
did  I  not?  But  then  you  were  my  obedient 
ward — and  to-day  I  am  your  obedient  guardian. 
i  129 


AN    I.O.  U. 

Aline  (lifting  her  hat  from  her  head  and  lay 
ing  it  on  her  knee).  You  have  not  told  me  that 
I  might  take  off  my  hat  yet,  and  you  did  the 
time  before.  (She  passes  her  hands  over  her 
hair.) 

Mr.  Atwood  (smiling).  Mark  the  year's  dif 
ference  !  Then  you  humbly  asked  my  permis 
sion.  To-day  you  don't  wait  for  it.  Time  flies, 
but  we  fly  also.  Are  you  satisfied  with  the 
changes  of  your  year,  Aline  ? 

Aline  (using  the  crown  of  her  hat  as  a  cushion 
for  her  bonnet-pins,  thrusting  them  in  and  out 
as  she  talks}.  Yes,  I  am  satisfied ;  but  your 
sister  is  not  satisfied  for  me. 

Mr.  Atwood.  What  displeases  her  ? 

Aline.  That  I  am  not  married. 

Mr.  Atwood  (quickly).  Did  she  say  that  to 
you  ? 

Aline.  Not  that  exactly,  but  I  know  how 
anxious  she  is  to  see  me  settled.  She  thinks 
I  am  in  danger  of  throwing  myself  away,  you 
know. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Why? 

Aline  (indifferently).  Oh,  because  I  am 
wealthy,  and  because  I  am  pretty. 

Mr.  Atwood  (laughing).  You  know  that  you 
are  wealthy,  because  I  could  not  well  keep  that 
from  you.  But  how  do  you  know  you  are  pretty? 
130 


AN    I.O.  U. 

Aline  (demurely).  I  have  been  told  so. 

Mr.  Atwood.  I  never  told  you  so. 

Aline  (looking  tip  at  him  and  raising  her  eye 
brows).  You  are  telling  me  so  now. 

Mr.  Atwood.  What  kind  of  discipline  does 
this  show  ?  You  ought  to  stand  in  awe  of  me, 
Aline. 

Aline.  I  do  sometimes.  I  was  horribly  afraid 
of  you  the  night  before  we  left  home.  I  was 
afraid  you  would  be  angry,  as  your  sister 
was. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Was  she  angry  with  you — and 
why? 

Aline  (thrusting  the  pins  into  her  hat  and 
looking  down).  Because  I  couldn't  do  what  she 
wanted  me  to — you  remember.  I  was  afraid 
to  tell  you  I  had  sent  him  away,  because  I 
knew  you  wanted  it  so  much,  too  ;  but,  indeed, 
I  had  tried  my  very  best. 

Mr.  Atwood  (leaning  towards  her).  And  you 
thought  I  should  be  angry  !  that  I  wanted  you 
to  marry  ! 

Aline.  But  you  did,  did  you  not  ?  You  kept 
asking  him  here  and  there,  and  making  me  go 
to  places  with  him  when  I  didn't  want  to. 

Mr.  Atwood.  No,  I  did  not  want  you  to 
marry  him.  When  you  told  me  you  could  not, 
I  was  indecently  happy  to  hear  it. 


AN    I.O.  U. 

Aline.  Then  why  did  you  feel  one  way  and 
act  another  ?  Of  course  I  misunderstood  you. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Can  you  see  no  reason  ? 

Aline.  I  call  it  very  unreasonable. 

Mr.  Atwood  (earnestly).  No,  he  had  every 
thing  to  offer  you — strength  of  body  and  mind, 
a  real  devotion,  I  think,  wealth,  position — and 
youth.  I  determined  he  should  have  every 
chance,  but  as  for  wishing  it — no,  Aline.  (He 
rises  and  moves  to  the  desk,  where  he  unlocks  a 
drawer  and  takes  from  it  a  long  white  glove, 
which  he  hands  ALINE.)  You  left  it  here  in 
your  last  visit.  Do  you  remember  ? 

Aline  (puzzled,  and  turning  the  glove  over). 
No  —  why,  yes,  I  do  remember.  I  searched 
everywhere  for  it  afterwards,  and  finally  threw 
away  the  mate.  Why  didn't  you  give  me  this 
before  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  I  have  not  given  it  to  you 
now. 

Aline  (turning  the  glove  over  again;  laughs). 
It  may  not  be  wasted,  after  all,  as  it  happens 
to  be  a  right-hand  glove.  This  will  do  for  my 
wedding-day.  Keep  it  for  me.  When  I  want 
it  I  will  ask  you  for  it.  (MR.  ATWOOD  takes  the 
glove  from  her  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket  silently?) 

Aline  (laughing).  How  seriously  you  take  it! 

Mr.  Atwood.  I  am  thinking  of  the  confession 
132 


AN   I.  O.  U. 

I  have  to  make  to  you.     I  was  going  down  to 
the  sea-side  to  see  you  this  afternoon. 

Aline.  But   you  wrote  that  you  were  very 
busy,  and  that  you  couldn't  possibly  come. 

Mr.  Atwood.  And  it  was  quite  true. 

Aline.  Then  how  could  you  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  I  couldn't   from  that  point  of 
view,  but  I  was  coming.    I  wanted  to  see  you. 

Aline  (mischievously).  You  saw  me  three  days 
ago.     That  was  your  reply  to  me. 

Mr.  Atwood.    I   wanted   to   see  you   again. 
That  was  your  answer. 

Aline.  Then  you  do  miss  me  a  little  ? 

Mr.  Atwood  (smiling).  A  little. 

Aline.  Only  a  little? 

Mr.  Atwood  (taking  her  two  hands  in  his  and 
raising  them  to  his  lips).  I  have  not  paid  you 
that  homage  since  the  day  when  you  last  sat 
in  this  chair.  You  say  that  you  have  wanted 
me,  Aline.  Multiply  that  tenfold,  and  you  will 
know  how  I  was  wanting  you.  I  told  you  I  was 
a  creature  of  habit.  When  you  left  town,  I 
turned  back  again  to  my  old  lines  of  life,  and 
it  was  as  if  they  had  never  fitted  me.  I  had 
drifted  from  them,  and  in  revenge  they  would 
not  have  me  again.  My  old  haunts  were  but 
places  revisited.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  ? 
What  am  I  to  do  ?  I  was  coming  to  ask  you. 
133 


AN    I.O.  U. 

Aline  (touching  the  reticule  at  her  side).  Was 
that  the  thought  you  sold  me  ? 

Mr.  Atwood.  That  and  something  further. 
Will  you  present  your  paper  now,  Aline  ?  I  am 
more  than  ready  to  tell  my  thought. 

Aline.  Let  me  tell  something  first.  I  was 
not  quite  honest  when  I  said  I  came  for  noth 
ing.  (She  turns  her  face  from  him  as  she  con 
tinues,  speaking  softly?)  Last  year,  when  I  sat 
in  this  chair,  you  told  me  that  if  I  really  cared, 
I  would  be  so  unhappy  in  a  separation  that 
nothing  could  make  me  forget — 

Mr.  Atwood  (eagerly).  Yes? 

Aline  (her  face  still  averted).  And  that  I  then 
would  learn  the  difference  between — just  being 
fond  of  some  one  and  something  else. 

Mr.  Atwood  (bending  nearer,  and  half  circling 
her  with  his  arm).  Go  on,  Aline. 

Aline.  And  that  when  my  eyes  cried  less 
than  my  heart,  I  would  understand. 

Mr.  Atwood.  And  now,  dear  ? 

Aline  (turning  to  him  suddenly  and  hiding  her 
face  against  his  arm).  You  told  me  that  if  I 
cared  really  I  couldn't  say  it,  and  I  don't  think 
I  can  say  it  at  all. 

Mr.  Atwood.  Then  let  me  say  it  for  you, 
Aline. 

Aline.  That  was  what  I  came  for.    When  we 


AN    I.  O.U. 

were  separated,  then  I  knew,  as  you  said  I 
would —  Will  you  bring  him  back  to  me  ?  (MR. 
AT  WOOD  bends  over  her  in  silence.  As  ALINE 
attempts  to  rise  he  gently  prevents  her  by  laying 
his  hand  on  her  head.  Once  his  lips  touch  her 
hair,  and  then  he  releases  her  and  stands  beside 
her.  ALINE,  rising  also,  glances  up  at  him  eager 
ly.  As  she  clasps  her  hands  appealingly  on  his 
arm,  he  looks  down  at  her.) 

Mr.  Atwood  (slowly).  Yes,  I  will  bring  him 
back  to  you. 

Aline  (anxiously).  You  are  not  vexed  with 
me? 

Mr.  Atwood.  No,  my  child. 

Aline.  And  you  will  still  love  me? 

Mr.  Atwood.  Always,  Aline.  (As  she  still 
clings  to  Jiim  lie  rouses  with  effort?)  All  is  as 
it  should  be  ;  I  shall  do  my  part.  I  will  give 
you  to  him  as  I  promised,  and  dance  at  your 
wedding,  dear.  Are  you  satisfied  ? 

Aline.  How  good  you  are  to  me.  (She  lifts 
her  face,  offering  him  her  lips.} 

Mr.  Atwood  (framing  her  face  in  his  hands). 
No,  those  are  not  for  me,  Aline.  (As  he  releases 
her  and  turns  away,  a  rap  at  the  door  calls 
him.  MR.  ATWOOD  crosses  the  room  and  opens 
the  door  to  receive  a  card  which  is  handed  in  to 
him.  He  reads  it  and  then  looks  at  ALINE.  Re- 


AN    I.O.  U. 

turning  to  her  side,  he  speaks  steadily?)  Aline, 
some  one  is  waiting  to  see  me  in  the  outer  of 
fice — some  one  who  can  offer  you  a  great  deal, 
my  dear — an  honorable  name,  an  eager  devo 
tion,  and  the  pride  of  strength  and  youth.  He 
asks  me  if  I  can  spare  him  a  few  moments. 
What  shall  I  tell  him,  dear  ?  Shall  I  say  that 
I  will  spare  him  far  more  than  that — and  that 
it  is  waiting  for  him  here  ?  (He  takes  her  glove 
from  his  pocket,  and  holds  it  toivards  her.}  Take 
your  glove  if  that  is  to  be  my  answer.  (As 
ALINE,  with  bowed  head,  holds  out  her  hand,  MR. 
ATWOOD  lays  the  white  glove  across  her  palm, 
and,  gently  opening  her  reticule,  draws  out  the 
written  form.  As  he  passes  the  open  window  on 
his  way  from  the  room,  he  pauses  to  tear  the 
paper  into  fragments,  fluttering  the  white  scraps 
out  into  the  air.) 

CURTAIN 


A    WILL    AND    A    WAY 

IT  was  in  that  pleasant  season  of  the  year 
when  there  is  a  ladder  at  every  apple-tree,  and 
every  man  met  on  the  road  is  driving  with  his 
left  hand  and  eating  a  red  apple  from  his  right. 
At  this  season,  as  regularly  as  the  year  rolled 
round,  old  Carshena  Hubblestone  nearly  died 
of  cramps,  caused  by  gorging  himself  with  the 
apples  falling  almost  into  his  mouth  from  the 
spreading  boughs  of  fruit  trees  that  fairly 
roofed  his  low  -  built  house.  This  was,  as  it 
were,  Carshena's  one  dissipation.  The  apples 
cost  him  nothing,  and  his  medical  attention 
after  his  bouts  cost  him  nothing  either,  for 
he  was  the  son  of  a  physician,  and  though  his 
father  was  long  since  dead,  the  village  doctor 
would  not  render  a  bill. 

"  Crow  don't  eat  crow,"  Dr.  Michel  answer 
ed,  roughly,  when  Carshena  weakly  asked  him 
what  he  owed.  The  chance  of  thus  roistering 
so  cheaply  is  not  presented  to  every  man,  and 
reluctance  to  let  such  a  bargain  pass  was  per- 
i37 


A   WILL    AND    A   WAY 

haps  what  helped  to  lend  periodicity  to  the  old 
man's  attacks.  Dr.  Michel  always  held  that 
this  was  his  chief  incentive,  and,  be  this  as  it 
might,  it  was  very  certain  that  apples  and  bar 
gains  were  the  only  two  things  on  earth  for 
which  Carshena  was  ever  known  to  show  a 
weakness,  creditable  or  discreditable.  Most 
small  communities  have  their  rich  men  and 
their  mean  men,  but  in  the  village  of  Leonard 
the  two  were  one. 

As  the  years  passed  on  and  Carshena's  head 
whitened,  it  naturally  grew  to  be  a  less  and  less 
easy  task  for  Dr.  Michel  to  bring  his  patient 
back  to  the  place  where  he  had  been  before 
apples  ripened.  If  the  situation  had  not  tickled 
a  spice  of  humor  that  lay  under  the  physician's 
grim  exterior  he  would  have  refused  these  au 
tumnal  attentions.  As  it  was  he  confined  him 
self  to  futile  warnings  and  threats  of  non-at 
tendance,  but  he  always  did  obey  the  summons 
when  it  came.  The  townsfolk  of  Leonard 
would  all  have  taken  the  same  humorous  view 
of  this  weakness  of  Carshena's  but  for  the 
trouble  which  it  gave  his  too-good  sister  Adelia 
— liked  and  pitied  by  every  one.  Adelia  nursed 
her  brother  in  each  attack  with  a  tenderness 
and  anxiety  that  aggravated  all  the  commu 
nity.  Nobody  but  his  sister  Adelia  was  ever 
138 


A   WILL    AND    A   WAY 

anxious  over  Carshena.  It  was  therefore  like 
a  bolt  from  a  clear  sky  when,  in  this  chronicled 
autumn,  the  following  conversation  took  place 
at  the  Hubblestones'  gate.  Dr.  Michel's  buggy 
was  wheeling  out  to  the  main  road  as  Mr. 
Gowan,  the  town  butcher,  was  about  to  drive 
through  the  gateway. 

"Well,  doctor,"  called  the  genial  man  of 
blood,  a  broad  grin  on  his  round  face,  "how's 
the  patient  ?" 

"  He's  gone,  sir,"  said  Dr.  Michel,  drawing 
rein.  The  butcher  drew  up  his  horse  sharply, 
his  ruddy  face  changing  so  suddenly  that  the 
doctor  laughed  outright. 

"  Gone  !"  echoed  Mr.  Gowan.     "Not  gone  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  as  I  warned  him  time  and  again  he 
would  go." 

The  butcher  shook  his  head  and  pursed  his 
lips,  the  news  slowly  penetrating  his  mind. 
"Well,  I  certainly  would  hate  to  die  of  eatin' 
apples,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I  guess  you'll  find  you  hate  to  die  of  any 
thing,  when  the  time  comes,"  said  the  more  ex 
perienced  physician.  "  Carshena,"  he  added, 
"got  nothing  he  didn't  bring  on  himself,  if 
that's  any  comfort  to  him." 

"  Don't  speak  hard  of  the  dead,  doctor,"  urged 
Mr.  Gowan.  "  We've  all  got  to  follow  him  some 
139 


A   WILL    AND    A   WAY 

day.  He  wasn't  a  nice  man  in  some  ways, 
Carshena  wasn't,  but — " 

"  He  was  a  nasty  old  man  in  most  ways," 
snapped  the  doctor. 

"  Don't  say  such  things  now,  doctor,  don't," 
urged  the  good  butcher.  "'Ain't  he  paid  in  his 
full  price,  whatever  his  sins  was  ?  Poor  soul ! 
he  can't  be  worse  'n  dead." 

"  Oh  yes,  he  can,  and  for  one  I  believe  he  is," 
interrupted  the  doctor.  His  crisp  white  hair 
seemed  to  Mr.  Gowan  to  curl  tighter  over  his 
head  as  he  frowned  with  some  thought  he  was 
nursing.  "You  haven't  seen  the  will  I  had  to 
witness  this  morning!"  he  burst  out.  "Just 
you  wait  a  little  !  Upon  my  soul !  the  more  I 
think  of  it  the  madder  I  get !  It's  out  of  my 
bailiwick,  but  if  I  were  a  lawyer  I'd  walk  right 
up  now  under  those  old  apple-trees  yonder,  and 
before  that  man  was  cold  on  his  bed  I'd  have 
his  sister's  promise  to  break  his  old  will  into 
a  thousand  splinters !  Wait  till  you  hear  it. 
Good-morning." 

When  the  will  was  read  and  its  contents  an 
nounced,  the  town  of  Leonard,  including  its 
butcher,  took  the  doctor's  view  to  a  man. 

"A  brute,"  said  Dr.  Michel,  hotly,  "who  has 
let  his  old  sister  work  her  hands  to  the  bone 
for  him,  and  then  turned  her  off  like  some  old 
140 


A    WILL    AND    A   WAY 

worn-out  horse,  has,  in  my  opinion,  no  right  to 
a  will  at  all.  How  about  setting  this  will  aside 
in  his  sister's  interests,  judge?" 

A  little  convocation  of  the  leading  spirits 
of  Leonard  were  met  together  in  Dr.  Michel's 
office  to  discuss  the  matter  of  Carshena's  will, 
and  what  should  be  done  with  Adelia,  cast  on 
the  charity  of  the  village.  Judge  Bowles,  when 
appealed  to,  raised  his  mild  blue  eyes  and 
looked  around  the  company. 

"Adelia,"  he  said,  "  is  the  best  sister  I  ever 
knew.  Had  the  man  no  shame  ?" 

"  Shame !"  said  the  town's  barber,  with  a 
reminiscent  chuckle ;  "  why,  he  came  into  my 
parlors  one  day  and  asked  me  if  I'd  cut  the 
back  of  his  hair  for  twelve  cents,  and  let  him 
cut  the  front  himself ;  and  I  did  it,  for  the  joke 
of  the  thing  !  He  saved  thirteen  cents  that 
way." 

"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen  !"  demurred  the 
judge  ;  but  amid  the  general  laughter  the  tax- 
gatherer's  voice  rose  : 

"  There  isn't  a  tax  he  didn't  fight.  This  town 
got  nothing  out  of  Carshena  Hubblestone  that 
he  could  help  paying ;  and  now  he  leaves  us  his 
relatives  to  support." 

Judge  Bowles  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  mild  but  earnest 
141 


A   WILL    AND    A   WAY 

rebuke,  "  the  man  is  dead.  We  all  know  what 
his  character  was  without  these  distressing  par 
ticulars.  It  is  entirely  true  that  we  owe  him 
nothing,  but  a  dead  man  is  defenceless,  and 
his  will  is  his  will,  and  law  is  law.  Did  you 
ever  think  what  a  solemn  title  a  man's  last  will 
is?  It  means  just  what  it  says,  gentlemen — 
his  last  will,  his  last  wish  and  power  of  disposi 
tion  writ  down  on  paper,  concerning  his  own 
property.  It's  a  solemn  thing  to  break  that." 

"  A  man's  no  business  having  such  a  will  and 
a  disposition  to  write  down  on  paper,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  What  are  the  exact  terms  of  the 
will,  judge?" 

"Very  simple,"  said  Judge  Bowles,  dryly. 
"The  whole  estate  is  to  be  sold,  and  the  entire 
proceeds,  every  cent  realized,  except  what  is 
kept  back  for  repairs  and  care,  is  to  be  applied 
to  the  purchase  of  a  suitable  lot  and  the  raising 
of  a  great  monument  over  the  mortal  remains 
of  Carshena  Hubblestone." 

"  While  his  sister  starves  !"  added  Dr.  Michel. 

"  Gee  !"  exclaimed  the  kindly  butcher.  He 
had  heard  all  this  before,  but  thus  repeated  it 
seemed  to  strike  him  anew,  as  somehow  it  did 
all  the  rest  of  the  company.  They  sat  looking 
at  each  other  in  silence,  with  indrawings  of  the 
breath  and  compression  of  lips. 
142 


A    WILL    AND    A   WAY 

"  There  is  this  extenuating  circumstance," 
said  the  doctor,  with  dangerous  smoothness : 
"our  lamented  brother  was  aware  that  unless 
he  erected  a  monument  to  himself  he  might 
never  enjoy  one.  We — the  judge,  Mr.  Gowan, 
and  myself — are  made  sole  executors  under  the 
will — without  pay.  In  Carshena's  life  Adelia 
was  his  white  slave.  In  his  death,  doubtless, 
he  felt  he  could  trust  her  to  make  no  protest. 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  with  him  as  I 
have,  gentlemen.  I  shall  call  it  a  shame  upon 
us  if  we  let  her  eat  the  bitter  bread  of  our 
charity.  She's  been  put  upon  and  trodden 
down,  but  she's  still  a  proud  woman  in  her 
way,  and  we've  got  to  save  her  from  a  bitter 
old  age.  We've  got  to  do  it." 

"  It's  the  kind  of  thing  that  discourages  one's 
belief  in  humanity,"  said  the  judge,  in  a  low 
ered  tone.  "  This  affair  might  be  only  absurd 
if  it  weren't  for  the  sister's  share  in  it.  As  it 
is,  it's  a  revelation  of  human  selfishness  that 
makes  one  heart-sick." 

Dr.  Michel's  laugh  rang  out  irreverently. 

"  It's  perfectly  absurd,  sister  or  no  sister,"  he 
said.  "  Nobody,  not  one  of  us,  loved  Carshena 
in  life — though  I  think  now  we  didn't  hate  him 
half  enough — and  here  in  death  he's  fixed  it  so 
the  town's  got  to  pay  for  his  responsibilities 


A   WILL    AND    A    WAY 

while  his  money  builds  him  a  grand  mon 
ument,  and  he  don't  deserve  a  foot-stone  !  I 
call  that  about  as  absurd  as  you'll  get  any 
where.  I'll  grant  you  it  makes  me  downright 
sick  at  my  stomach,  judge,  but  it  don't  touch 
my  heart.  No,  sir.  Keep  your  organs  separate, 
as  I  do,  gentlemen.  There's  one  thing  certain" 
— he  drew  the  eyes  of  his  audience  with  uplift 
ed  ringer — "if  we  can't  outwit  this  will  some 
how,  we'll  be  the  laughing-stock  of  this  whole 
county.  I  don't  care  a  snap  of  my  finger  if 
Carshena  has  a  monument  as  high  as  Haman's 
gallows,  if  only  his  sister  is  protected  at  the 
same  time." 

"  Well,  short  of  breaking  the  will,  what  would 
you  suggest,  doctor?"  asked  Judge  Bowles,  with 
a  slight  stiffness.  He  had  not  liked  the  famil 
iar  discourse  on  his  organs,  but  the  doctor  did 
not  care.  The  judge  was  ruffled  at  last,  which 
was  exactly  what  he  desired. 

"  Suggest  ?"  he  cried,  laughing.  "  I  don't 
know ;  but  I  know  there  never  was  a  will 
written  that  couldn't  be  driven  through  with 
a  coach  and  six  if  the  right  man  sits  on  the 
box.  You're  the  lawyer,  judge." 

The  judge  was  a  lawyer,  as  he  then  and  there 
proceeded  to  prove.     He  rose  to  his  feet  and 
spoke  in  his  old-fashioned  style  : 
144 


A    WILL    AND    A   WAY 

"  Gentlemen,  I  think  I  speak  for  this  company 
when  I  say  that  we  would  strongly  object  to  the 
breaking  of  this  will  as  a  bad  precedent  in  the 
community.  We  wish  it  carried  out  to  the  very 
letter.  Our  fellow-townsman  knew  his  sister's 
needs  better  than  we,  and  he  chose  to  leave 
her  needy.  There  are  many,  many  things  this 
town  sorely  wants,  as  he  also  knew,  but  he  chose 
to  use  his  money  otherwise.  What  a  monument 
to  him  it  would  have  been  had  he  built  us  the 
new  school-house  our  town  requires  !  The  wet 
south  lot  down  by  the  old  mill  is  an  eyesore  to 
the  village.  Had  he  used  that  land  and  drained 
it  and  set  up  a  school -house  there,  or  indeed 
any  public  building,  what  a  different  meeting 
this  would  have  been  !  He  was  our  only  man 
of  wealth,  and  he  leaves  not  so  much  as  a  town- 
clock  to  thank  him  for.  No ;  a  monument  to  him 
self  is  what  his  will  calls  for,  and  a  monument 
he  shall  have.  If  we  failed  him  here,  which  of 
us  would  feel  sure  that  our  own  wills  would  be 
carried  out  ?  In  the  confidence  of  these  four 
walls  we  can  say  that  the  difficulties  of  the 
inscription  and  the  style  of  monument  seem 
insuperable.  I  know  but  one  man  to  whom  I 
would  intrust  this  delicate  commission.  I  feel 
confident  that  he  would  not  render  us  ab 
surd  by  too  conspicuous  a  monument  or  too 
K  145 


A    WILL    AND    A   WAY 

florid  an  inscription.  Need  I  name  Dr.  Mi 
chel  ?" 

"  Out  of  my  bailiwick,"  cried  the  doctor — 
"  'way  out  of  my  bailiwick."  But  his  voice  was 
drowned  in  the  confusion  of  the  popular  acclaim 
that  was  forming  him  into  a  committee  of  one. 
The  kindly  butcher  made  his  way  to  the  doc 
tor's  side  under  cover  of  the  noise. 

"  Take  it,  doctor ;  now  do  take  it,"  he  whis 
pered  in  his  ear.  "  There  ain't  a  man  in  the 
town  that  can  shave  this  pig  if  you  can't.  I 
was  sayin'  just  yesterday  you're  lost  in  this  lit 
tle  place  of  ourn.  You've  got  more  sense  than's 
often  called  for  here.  Here's  the  chance  for 
you  to  show  'em  what  you  can  do.  Do  take  it." 

The  physician  looked  at  the  wheedling  little 
butcher  with  a  glance  from  his  blue  eye  that 
was  half  kindly,  half  irritated.  "  Well,  I'll  take 
it,"  he  cried ;  "  I'll  take  it ;  and  I  thank  you 
for  your  confidence,  gentlemen." 

It  was  a  full  month  before  the  little  company 
met  again  in  the  doctor's  office,  but  during  that 
period  they  knew  Dr.  Michel  had  not  been  idle 
in  the  matter  intrusted  to  his  care.  He  was 
seen  in  earnest  consultation  with  the  town's 
first  masons,  the  best  carpenters,  the  local  archi 
tect;  and  these  worthies,  under  close  and  eager 
examination,  gave  answers  that  dashed  the  un- 
146 


A    WILL    AND    A   WAY 

spoken  hopes  of  those  who  questioned.  Here 
were  bona  fide  bids  asked  for  on  so  much  ma 
sonry,  so  much  carpentering,  and  the  architect 
had  been  ordered  to  send  in  designs  of  monu 
ments,  how  high  he  deemed  it  unprofessional 
to  state  ;  but  arguing  inversely,  they  judged 
by  the  length  of  his  countenance  that  the 
measurements  were  not  short — he  had  partic 
ularly  hated  Carshena.  It  was,  for  all  these 
reasons,  a  rather  anxious-looking  company  that 
met  in  Dr.  Michel's  office  at  his  summons,  and 
the  doctor's  own  face  was  not  reassuring  as  he 
opened  the  meeting. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  slowly,  "  it's  a 
thankless  task  you've  given  me,  but  such  as  it 
is,  I  hope  you  will  find  I  have  performed  it  to 
your  satisfaction.  Here  are  various  plans  for 
the  monument  to  be  erected  to  our  late  fellow- 
citizen,  and  here  is  a  plan  of  the  ground  that 
it  has  seemed  to  me  most  suitable  to  purchase. 
It  has  been  a  task  peculiarly  uncongenial  to 
me,  because  I,  I  suppose,  know  more  than  any 
of  you  here  how  this  money  is  needed  where  it 
ought  to  have  gone.  I  saw  Adelia  yesterday, 
and  lonely  and  ghost-ridden  as  that  old  house 
would  be  to  any  of  us,  it's  a  home  to  her  that's 
to  be  sold  over  her  head  to  build  this."  He 
laid  his  hand  on  the  papers  he  had  thrown 
147 


A   WILL    AND    A  WAY 

down  on  the  table  before  him.  The  little  com 
pany  looked  silently  at  each  other,  with  faces 
as  downcast  as  if  they  were  to  blame.  It  was 
Judge  Bowles  who  spoke  first. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  we  must  not  let  our 
selves  feel  too  responsible  in  this  matter.  We 
are  only  following  our  plain  duty.  Show  us  the 
monument  which  you  consider  best,  doctor." 

The  doctor  was  silently  turning  over  the 
papers.  "  Family  feeling  is  a  queer  thing," 
he  said,  meditatively.  "  When  I  saw  Adelia,  I 
asked  her  if  she  wanted  a  neighbor  to  sleep  in 
the  house  at  night. 

"  '  There's  nothing  here  for  robbers  to  take, 
Dr.  Michel,'  she  said  ;  '  and  if  it's  ghosts  you 
think  I'm  afraid  of,  I  only  wish  from  my  heart 
ghosts  would  come  back  to  visit  me.  Every 
body  of  my  blood  is  dead.'  " 

"  It's  very  pitiful,"  said  Judge  Bowles,  slowly. 

The  doctor  turned  on  him  instantly.  "  Do 
you  seem  to  feel  now  that  you  could  counte 
nance  breaking  the  will,  judge  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  judge,  shortly,  as  one  who 
whistles  to  keep  his  courage  up. 

The  doctor's  fingers  drummed  on  the  table 
as  he  paused  thoughtfully. 

"  Carshena,"  he  said,  "  if  you  can  believe  me, 
measured  out  the  kerosene  oil  he  allowed  for 
148 


A   WILL    AND    A   WAY 

each  week  on  Monday ;  and  when  it  gave  out 
they  went  to  bed  at  dusk,  if  it  gave  out  on 
Friday  night.  But  one  thing  Adelia  did  man 
age  to  do.  So  long  as  a  drop  of  oil  was  in  the 
measure  a  light  stood  in  the  window  that  lit 
up  that  ugly  turn  in  the  county  road  round  the 
corner  of  their  house.  I  know  her  light  saved 
me  from  a  bad  collision  once  ;  some  of  you 
also,  perhaps.  She's  kept  that  little  lamp  so 
clean  it  always  shone  like  a  jewel  up  there. 
The  window-pane  it  shone  through  had  never 
a  speck  on  it  either.  That's  what  I  call  pub 
lic  spirit.  And  it's  public  spirit,  too,  that 
made  her  keep  sweet-smelling  flowers  grow 
ing  on  the  top  of  the  old  road  wall.  In  sum 
mer  I  always  drive  past  there  slowly  to  enjoy 
them.  When  she  comes  on  the  charity  of  the 
town  she  may  console  herself  by  remember 
ing  these  things.  She  did  what  she  could  (in 
spite  of  Carshena),  and  nobody  can  do  more. 
Here  are  the  plans  for  his  monument,  gentle 
men.  I  would  like  to  have  your  vote  on 
them." 

The  little  company,  as  if  glad  to  move,  drew 
about  the  table  while  the  doctor  opened  the 
plans  and  laid  them  in  a  row.  The  butcher, 
whose  ruddy  face  looked  dim  in  his  disappoint 
ment,  and  whose  despondent  chin  hung  down 
149 


A    WILL    AND    A    WAY 

on  his  white  shirt  bosom,  picked  up  one  of  the 
designs  gingerly  and  examined  it. 

"  Are  they  all  alike,  doctor  ?"  he  asked. 

Judge  Bowles  looked  over  Mr.  Gowan's  shoul 
der. 

"  Each  design  seems  to  be  a  hollow  shaft  of 
some  kind,  with  a  round  opening  at  the  top," 
he  said,  and  looked  inquiringly  over  his  glasses 
at  the  doctor,  who  nodded  assent. 

"  They  are  all  hollow.  You  seem  to  get 
more  for  your  money  so.  The  round  opening 
at  the  top  of  the  shaft  can  be  filled  with  any 
thing  we  may  choose  later.  I  might  suggest 
a  crystal  with  the  virtues  of  the  deceased  in 
scribed  on  it.  Then,  if  we  keep  a  light  burn 
ing  behind  the  glass  at  night,  those  virtues 
will  shine  before  us  by  night  and  by  day." 

Judge  Bowles  lifted  his  eyes  quickly.  The 
doctor's  face  was  unpleasantly  satiric,  and  his 
blue  eyes  looked  out  angrily  from  under  his 
curling  white  hair.  Judge  Bowles  sat  down, 
leaning  back  heavily  in  his  chair,  his  perplex 
ed  eyes  still  on  Dr.  Michel's  frowning  brow. 
Mr.  Gowan,  with  a  look  as  near  anger  as  he 
could  achieve,  moved  to  a  seat  behind  the  stove. 
His  idol  was  failing  him  utterly.  He  felt  he 
himself  could  have  done  better  than  this.  Dr. 
Michel's  roving  eyes  glanced  round  the  circle 
150 


A    WILL    AND    A    WAY 

top  of  the  monument.  I  spoke  of  a  crystal 
set  in  that  opening,  with  the  virtues  of  the 
deceased  inscribed  upon  it,  but  we  can,  if  we 
choose,  carve  those  same  virtues  in  the  more 
imperishable  stone  below,  and  print  something 
else — a  clock  face  perhaps — on  the  crystal 
above.  That's  a  mere  minor  detail." 

Judge  Bowles,  whose  gaze  had  been  growing 
more  and  more  bewildered,  now  started  in  his 
chair  and  sat  suddenly  upright.  He  stared  at 
the  doctor  uncertainly.  The  doctor  cast  a 
quick  look  at  him,  and  went  on  rapidly  : 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,  I'll  make  my  report 
and  leave  it  with  you.  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
do  this  morning  in  other  directions.  It  has 
occurred  to  me  that  as  the  base  of  the  monu 
ment  is  to  be  square  and  hollow,  it  would  be 
easy  to  fit  it  into  a  comfortable  living-room, 
with  one,  or  perhaps  two,  small  rooms  built 
about  it.  I  have  not  mentioned  this  to  the 
architect,  but  I  know  it  can  be  done.  The 
will  especially  directs  that  repairs  and  care  be 
allowed  for."  The  doctor  was  talking  very 
rapidly  now.  "  The  monument  will  not  cost 
more  than  ten  thousand,  the  clock  about  two. 
Twelve  thousand  from  twenty  thousand  leaves 
eight  thousand.  The  yearly  interest  on  eight 
thousand  and  the  fact  that  we  could  offer  free 
152 


A    WILL    AND    A   WAY 

residence  in  the  monument  should  let  us  en 
gage  a  reliable  resident  keeper,  who  would  give 
the  time  and  attention  that  such  a  monument 
and  such  a  park  would  need." 

The  doctor  paused,  and  again  looked  about 
him. 

The  whole  circle  of  faces  looked  back  at  him 
curiously — some  with  a  puzzled  gaze,  but  sev 
eral,  including  Judge  Bowles,  with  a  half-fasci 
nated,  half -dismayed  air.  Mr.  Gowan  alone 
preserved  his  look  of  utter  hopelessness. 

"  Who'd  take  a  job  like  that  ?"  he  said,  gloom 
ily.  "  I  wouldn't,  for  one,  live  in  a  vault  with 
Carshena,  dead  or  alive." 

"  Oh,  the  grave  could  be  outside,  and  the 
monument  as  a  kind  of  monster  head-stone," 
said  the  doctor,  pleasantly.  "  My  idea  was  to 
have  the  grave  well  outside.  Four  or  five  hun 
dred  and  a  home  isn't  much  to  offer  a  man, 
gentlemen,  but  I  happen  to  know  a  very  re 
spectable  elderly  female  who  would,  it  seems 
to  me,  suit  us  exactly  as  well  as  a  man.  In 
fact,  I  think  it  would  considerably  add  to  the 
picturesque  features  of  our  little  town  park  to 
have  a  resident  female  keeper.  I  think  I  see 
her  now,  sitting  in  the  summer  sunshine  at  the 
door  of  this  unique  head-stone  monument,  or  in 
winter  independently  luxuriating  in  its  warm 


A    WILL    AND    A    WAY 

and  hospitable  shelter.  I  see  her  winding  the 
clock,  affectionately  keeping  the  grave  like  a 
gorgeous  flower-bed,  caring  for  the  shrubbery, 
burnishing  the  clock  lamp  till  it  shines  like  a 
jewel,  as  she  well  knows  how  to  do,  and  best  of 
all  in  her  case,  gentlemen,  I  happen  to  know 
from  her  own  lips  that  she  has  no  fear  of 
ghosts.  Why,  gentlemen,  what's  the  matter? 
I  protest,  gentlemen." 

At  that  moment  Mr.  Gowan  might  be  said 
to  be  the  doctor's  only  audience.  The  rest  of 
the  company  were  engaged  in  whispering  to 
each  other,  or  speechlessly  giving  themselves 
over  to  suppressed  and  unholy  glee.  Judge 
Bowles  was  openly  wiping  his  eyes  and  shak 
ing  in  his  chair.  Dr.  Michel  looked  around  the 
circle  with  resentful  surprise. 

'*  You  seem  amused,  gentlemen  !"  he  said, 
with  dignity  ;  and  then  addressing  himself  to 
Mr.  Gowan  exclusively,  as  if  that  gentleman 
alone  were  worthy  to  be  his  listener,  "Would 
you  object  to  a  woman  as  keeper,  Mr.  Gow 
an?" 

"  What's  her  name  ?"  asked  the  butcher. 

A  roar  of  laughter,  not  to  be  longer  sup 
pressed,  drowned  his  words.  Mr.  Gowan  look 
ed  about  the  shaken  circle,  stared  for  a  mo 
ment,  then  suddenly,  as  comprehension,  like  a 
154 


A   WILL    AND    A   WAY 

breaking  dawn,  spread  over  his  round  face,  he 
brought  his  hand  down  hard  on  his  fat  knee. 

"  Well,  doctor,"  he  roared,  in  admiration  too 
deep  for  laughter,  "  if  you  ain't  the  dawgornd- 
est !" 

The  doctor's  wiry  hair  seemed  to  rise  and 
spread  as  wings,  his  eyes  snapped  and  twin 
kled,  his  mouth  puckered.  "  Will  some  one 
embody  this  in  the  form  of  a  motion  ?"  he 
asked,  gravely.  The  judge  dried  his  eyes,  and, 
with  difficulty,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I  move  that  we  build 
this  monument  with  a  base  large  enough  for  a 
suite  of  rooms  inside  ;  that  we  set  this  struct 
ure  on  the  lot  which  our  good  doctor  has 
chosen  ;  that  we  ornament  it  with  an  illumi 
nated  clock  at  the  top  ;  and  further,  that — that 
this  female  keeper  be  appointed." 

"  Seconded,  by  Harry  !"  roared  Mr.  Gowan. 

The  doctor,  with  his  hands  on  his  hips,  his 
body  thrown  far  back,  looked  with  the  eye  of 
a  conqueror  over  the  assembly.  "  Those  in 
favor  of  the  motion  will  please  say  Aye  ;  those 
opposed,  No.  It  seems  to  be  carried ;  it  is 
carried,"  he  recited  in  one  rapid  breath. 

"Amen  !"  endorsed  Mr.  Gowan,  fervently. 

And  this  warm  approval  of  their  butcher  was 
in  the  end  echoed  as  cordially  by  the  most 
155 


A   WILL    AND    A   WAY 

conservative  citizens  of  Leonard.  After  the 
first  shock  of  their  surprise  was  over,  natu 
ral  misgivings  were  lost  in  enjoyment  of  the 
grim  humor  of  this  very  practical  jest  of  their 
good  doctor's.  Many  a  village  has  its  park, 
and  many  a  one  its  illuminated  clock  ;  it  was 
left  for  Leonard  to  have  in  its  park  a  grave 
kept  like  a  gorgeous  flower-bed,  and  at  the 
grave's  head  a  towering  monument  that  is  at 
once  a  tombstone,  an  illuminated  clock,  and  a 
residence  for  the  park's  keeper. 

Who  the  next  keeper  may  be  it  is  one  of 
the  amusements  of  Leonard  to  imagine.  The 
present  incumbent  is  a  happy  old  woman,  whose 
fellow-citizens  like  nothing  better  than  to  see 
her,  according  to  their  doctor's  prophecy,  wind 
ing  the  clock,  caring  for  the  flowers,  bur 
nishing  the  town  lamp ;  in  summer  sitting  in 
the  sunshine  at  the  door  of  the  head -stone 
monument,  in  winter  luxuriating  in  that  warm 
and  independent  shelter. 

"  I  feel  as  if  Carshena  knew  just  what  was 
best  for  me,  after  all,  doctor,"  she  said  to  her 
physician,  in  his  first  call  upon  her  in  her  new 
home  ;  and  that  worthy,  with  a  nod  of  his  white 
head,  assented  in  the  readiest  manner. 

"  Doubtless,  madam,  doubtless,"  he  said, 
"  Carshena  had  all  this  in  his  mind  when  he 
156 


A   WILL    AND    A    WAY 

made  me  his  executor.  Didn't  you,  Carshe- 
na?"  He  winked  his  eye  genially  at  the  grave 
as  he  passed  out,  and,  with  no  shade  of  un 
certainty  or  repentance  in  his  mind,  climbed 
into  his  buggy  and  went  on  his  satisfied  way. 


OF    HER    OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"  BIANCA,  do  you  see  that  little  path  ?" 

"Nonsense  !  There  isn't  any  to  see.  I  told 
you  there  wouldn't  be." 

"  There  is.  Stand  back  here  where  I  am  and 
you'll  see  it." 

A  long  pause. 

"  Two  bodies  can't  possibly  occupy  the  same 
place,  Charles.  Don't  they  teach  natural  science 
in  France  ?" 

"  The  most  natural  of  all  the  sciences,  dear 
est.  Don't  'keep  yourself  so  far  removed,'  as 
my  uncle  calls  it." 

"Then  don't  make  it  so  necessary!" 

"I  won't  move  a  finger — I  swear  I  won't — 
if  you'll  come  here  and  look  at  the  path.  You 
can't  see  it  from  where  you  stand  in  the  dusk." 
Another  pause,  and  a  rustling  of  the  weeds  and 
dry  grass  growing  outside  the  neglected  old 
grape-arbor.  Then  a  girlish  laugh. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  I  do  see  it.  It  leads  straight  from 
your  uncle's  house,  and  it  looks  for  all  the  world 
158 


OF    HER    OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

like  a  little  rabbit-path  in  the  weeds.  Do  you 
really  think  he  meets  her  out-doors  here  some 
where  ?  How  can  they  !  They  are  so  old." 

"  Everybody  can't  be  as  young  as  you  and  I." 

"  Oh,  you  said  you  wouldn't !" 

"Well,  I  didn't.  I  only  wanted  to.  How 
old  is  your  grandmother  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  thousands  of  years  old.  How 
old  is  your  uncle  ?" 

"  About  that  same  age."     Another  pause. 

"Just  think  of  it !  So  old,  and  still  having 
rabbit-paths  worn  towards  her  !" 

"  As  for  rabbit-paths,  I  expect  to  be  keeping 
my  rabbit-gun  loaded  long  after  your  head  is 
white,  Bianca." 

"  Don't.  I  want  to  be  sensible.  Do  you 
know,  this  will  make  an  awful  fuss  if  my  par 
ents  and  my  uncles  and  aunts  find  it  out." 

"  Then  don't  tell  them.  But  I  don't  see  why 
they  should  care.  I  wouldn't,  for  my  part." 

"  You  wouldn't  like  them  to  marry  !" 

"Why  not?" 

"Why — why — it  would  be  so  very  bad  for 
grandmamma.  It  would  agitate  her  so."  This 
time  it  was  the  man  who  laughed. 

"Maybe  she'd  like  to  be  agitated.  Why 
should  we  care.  We  have  enough  on  our  own 
hands  just  now." 

159 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"  Oh,  but  I  would  care.  It  would  be  so  ab 
surd.  The  family  would  all  hate  it ;  and  I  sup 
pose  your  family  in  France  would  look  on  it  as 
a  terrible  mesalliance,  wouldn't  they  ?" 

"  He  wouldn't  care  how  they  looked  on  it. 
He'll  never  go  back  there  again.  He  never 
has  since  he  went  back  for  me  and  the  title. 
Besides,  wouldn't  that  be  a  high  note,  when 
he  was  only  a  tutor  for  your  grandmother's 
children  once  upon  a  time?  He  taught  your 
own  mother  '  ze  musique  and  ze  languages.' " 

"  But  that  was  long,  long  ago,  before  he  be 
came  the  Count  Malleville  with  lots  of  money. 
He's  richer  than  my  grandmother  now.  I  think 
he's  bought  half  her  plantation  from  her  ;  and 
as  for  your  new  house  over  there,  it  would  cast 
ours  all  in  the  shade  if  your  trees  weren't  kind 
enough  to  hide  it." 

Again  rang  out  the  pretty,  gurgling  laugh  of 
a  very  young  girl. 

"  Oh,  do  you  remember  how  grandmamma 
used  to  mimic  him,  and  tell  us  about  the  time 
when  he  was  a  resident  tutor  here  and  wouldn't 
keep  our  American  Sundays?  'Oh,  Madame 
Outerbrook,MadameOuterbrook,it  is  to  be  your 
Sunday  all  ze  day  to-day.  Well,  I  will  go  and 
rupticate  my  stockings.'  And  then  when  grand-  , 
mother  told  him  he  really  mustn't  darn  his 
160 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

stockings  on  Sunday,  'Oh,  Madame  Outer- 
brook,  we  all  get  to  ze  heavens  our  own  way. 
Le  bon  Dieu,  He  understands.  On  zat  last  day 
he  will  say,  "  Presbyterian,  you  go  zare  ;  Epis 
copalian,  you  go  zare ;  Catholique,  you  go 
zare  ;  Monsieur  Malleville — you  go  where  you 
please." '" 

The  two  laughing  young  voices  joined  to 
gether  in  the  last  words,  as  if  uniting  in  a  well- 
known  recitative.  Then  the  man's  voice  went 
on  alone : 

"You  mark  my  words, she's  going  to  'rupti- 
cate '  his  stockings  for  him  from  now  on.  Your 
grandmother  never  mimicked  him  to  me,  Bi- 
anca.  Of  course  she  didn't  I'm  his  nephew. 
Don't  you  remember  how  you  girls  used  to  hide 
me  behind  her  chair  and  then  tease  her  to 
mimic  him  ?  I  remember  everything  we  ever 
did  together,  dear.  You  are  so  beautiful,  Bi- 
anca,  and  I  do  love  you  so."  Another  pause. 
"  Come,  let's  walk  down  by  the  pond  where  no 
one  else  goes,  and  look  for — " 

"  Frogs'  legs,  you  Frenchman  ?" 

"  No ;  for  our  ancestors,  and  each  other, 
dearest." 

The  rustling  of  feet  in  the  dry  grass  grew 
louder,  then  fainter  and  fainter.  Before  all  sound 
died  away  the  girl's  voice  came  back  clearly : 
L  161 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  you  must  be  right, 
for  I  haven't  heard  grandmamma  mimic  him 
in  ages  —  not  since  we  were  all  children  to 
gether.  Isn't  it  too  funny  ?  And  it's  kind  of 
pathetic  too.  There'll  be  an  awful  fuss  !" 

"  So  we  are  to  be  opposed,  it  appears,  my  dear 
count,"  said  Madam  Outerbrook,  looking  up 
into  her  aged  lover's  face  and  laughing  softly, 
but,  alas,  not  as  the  young  Bianca  had  laughed. 
They  were  sitting  together  in  the  old  grape- 
arbor  hand  in  hand,  as  the  two  young  lovers 
had  stood  outside  a  few  minutes  before.  There 
had  been  only  some  grape  leaves  between  the 
two  couples.  Count  Malleville  replied  by  lift 
ing  the  fragile  but  still  beautiful  old  hand  to 
his  lips. 

"  Let  them  oppose,"  he  said,  sturdily,  in  his 
exact  accent,  which  the  young  people  had  faith 
fully  rendered  a  few  moments  before.  "  Let 
them  oppose,"  he  repeated,  again  kissing  Madam 
Outerbrook's  hand. 

"Take  care,  dear  friend,"  she  replied,  with 
spirit,  and  smiling  up  at  him,  "you  might 
agitate  grandmamma  !  So  Bianca  and  Charles 
are  in  earnest,  after  all.  Your  nephew  and 
my  favorite  grandchild.  That  ought  to  be 
very  nice." 

162 


OF    HER    OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"  It  will  be  very  nice,"  echoed  Monsieur 
Malleville.  "We  might  have  —  how  do  you 
call  it  ? — a  dooble  wedding." 

"  Nonsense  !"  said  Madam  Outerbrook.  She 
laughed,  and  colored  a  little  before  she  went 
on,  with  feeling,  "  Ah,  the  young  think  the  old 
cease  to  feel,  Monsieur  Malleville." 

"  To  feel,  one  must  have  lived  seventy  years," 
said  Monsieur  Malleville,  quickly  ;  and  Madam 
Outerbrook  laughed  aloud. 

"  In  the  liberal  translation  we  call  that  '  No 
fools  like  old  fools.'  Sometimes  I  wonder  if 
we  are  two  old  fools." 

"  I  hope  it,"  returned  Count  Malleville,  ear 
nestly — "  I  hope  it ;"  and  Madam  Outerbrook 
laughed  again. 

"  At  least  we  are  old  enough  to  know  our  own 
minds,"  she  said.  "  It  is  my  family  who  will 
make  the  greatest  objection,  I  fancy.  Perhaps 
you  would  like  me  to  assure  you  again  that  I 
am  not  to  be  shaken." 

"  I  have  already  that  assurance  here,"  an 
swered  Monsieur  Malleville,  his  hand  on  his 
heart.  "  But,  my  dear  lady,  now  that  our 
children  suspect — you  heard  them  talk  of  ze 
rabbit -path,"  he  laughed,  good-naturedly  — 
"  would  it  not  be  more  dignified  that  we  an 
nounce  our  intentions?" 


OF    HER    OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"Perhaps,"  said  Madam  Outerbrook, thought 
fully.  "Yes,  you  are  always  right,  my  dear 
friend.  It  is  better  to  be  frank  with  them. 
To-night  they  will  all  be  dancing  in  the  house. 
The  moonlight  is  gone  for  this  month,  and 
there  will  be  nothing  to  take  them  outside. 
Shall  we  tell  them  to-night,  when  they  are  all 
together  ?  Very  well ;  that  is  decided." 

c 

Every  summer  it  was  the  family  custom  that 
all  of  those  who  owed  their  being  to  Madam 
Outerbrook — to  the  remotest  babe — should  re 
turn  to  her  spreading  roof  for  the  hot  season, 
and  naturally  there  was  each  year  a  larger 
tribe  returning ;  but  in  this  particular  summer, 
it  having  been  a  fruitful  epoch  in  the  never- 
barren  Outerbrook  family,  they  had  crowded 
in,  branch  and  twig  and  budding  leaf,  until  the 
great  old  mansion  was  a  veritable  tent  of 
Abraham.  Because  the  children  were  so  many 
more,  or  else  her  strength  was  less,  Madam 
Outerbrook  had  never  before  been  so  unduly 
nervous  concerning  the  safety  of  these  soft 
small  creatures  that,  like  little  tadpoles  restored 
to  their  proper  element,  rioted  all  the  hot  day 
long  over  her  old  plantation.  It  seemed  to  her, 
too,  that  the  children  had  never  been  so  am 
bitiously  troublesome,  while  their  parents  had 
164 


OF   HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

never  been  so  recklessly  careless  of  their  safety  ; 
and  it  was  then  she  contracted  a  habit  that,  as 
it  grew  upon  her,  was  to  wear  on  her  nerves 
and  tire  her  beyond  words.  She  never  knew 
quite  how  it  began,  but  she  suddenly  found 
herself  constantly  and  anxiously  numbering 
the  children.  Whenever  they  came  to  their 
meals  she  counted  them ;  and  again — and  most 
important — at  night  she  would  creep  up  the 
stairs  and  number  them  in  their  innocent 
sleep.  There  were  always  thirty  -  seven  of 
them ;  and  she  was  always  heartily  ashamed  of 
her  foolish  fears,  but  this  did  not  prevent  their 
recurrence  the  next  day  and  the  next. 

On  the  day  of  this  history,  engrossed  in  her 
own  affairs,  Madam  Outerbrook  had  not  once 
counted  her  brood,  and  that  night  they  lay 
up-stairs  unnumbered,  away  from  the  strains 
of  music  that  gave  other  employment  to  the 
slippered  feet  of  their  young  mothers,  dancing 
below. 

For  there  was  dancing  in  the  house  that 
night,  as  Madam  Outerbrook  had  prophesied 
there  would  be.  All  of  the  family  proper,  and 
most  of  their  young  neighbors  also,  were  gath 
ered  together,  as  asked  or  unasked  they  always 
flocked  into  the  great  Outerbrook  ball-room 
when  the  moon  failed.  Generally  Madam  Out- 
165 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

erbrook  was  first  in  the  ball-room  to  formally 
welcome  her  guests,  for  she  believed  in  a  due 
degree  of  formality  ;  but  on  this  occasion  the 
dancing  was  well  under  way  before  she  made 
her  appearance  ;  and  when  she  did  enter  the 
hall  it  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Count  Malle- 
ville,  with  whom  she  had  walked  the  whole 
circle  of  the  room  before  she  seemed  to  find 
a  chair  to  her  liking.  Count  Malleville,  too, 
though  always  scrupulously  attired  and  ever 
ceremonious  in  manner,  showed,  both  in  his 
dress  and  bearing,  an  air  as  of  preparation  for 
some  occasion.  Added  to  these  straws  in  the 
wind,  Madam  Outerbrook  wore  a  set  of  jewels 
which  at  once  brought  on  this  whispered  con 
versation  in  a  corner  of  the  room  : 

"  Oh,  Charles,  do  look  ;  do  !  Grandmamma's 
not  leaning  on  your  uncle's  arm ;  she's  supported 
by  it,  and  she's  got  on  her  maiden  jewels — the 
beautiful  ones  she  brought  with  her  into  the 
family.  She's  always  worn  the  Outerbrook  jew 
elry  my  grandfather  gave  her  since  her  mar 
riage.  And  look  at  your  uncle's  face  !  I  do 
believe  they've  something  to  tell  us  to-night !" 

"  If  they  do,  just  as  surely  as  I  stand  here, 
we'll  follow  it  by  announcing  ours.    Let's  steal 
a  march   on   them   and   announce  ours  first, 
Bianca.     Come,  tell  them  now." 
166 


OF    HER    OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"  It's  too  late,"  said  Bianca,  looking  across 
the  room.  "  Look  !  Do  you  suppose  grand 
mamma  can  be  going  to  stand  up  there  and 
announce  it  out  loud  !" 

But  no,  though  Madam  Outerbrook  had  risen, 
it  was  only  to  hurry  abruptly  from  the  room. 
The  sight  in  the  ball-room  of  all  these  bare 
necked,  bare  -  armed,  laughing,  careless,  chat 
ting  young  mothers — her  own  daughters — had 
given  her  a  sharp  reminder  of  the  duty  for 
once  neglected.  Count  the  children  she  must, 
let  wait  what  would.  She  hurried  up  the  stairs 
to  a  great  bedroom  which  she  had  fitted  into 
a  kind  of  dormitory  for  all  the  younger  chil 
dren.  It  was  a  part  of  one  of  the  two  great 
wings  of  the  house  that,  after  one  fashion  of 
Southern  homes,  curved  out  like  hospitable 
arms  on  either  side  of  the  main  building.  The 
apartment  was  very  large,  and  there  was  noth 
ing  in  it  but  beds  ;  some  of  them  cradles,  some 
little  trundle-beds,  that  held  one  small  child 
snugly,  and  some  great  four-posters,  easily  em 
bracing  four  or  five  children,  their  bodies  lying 
across  the  mattresses,  their  little  heads,  light 
and  dark,  bolstered  in  a  row  at  the  long  sides. 
The  big  airy  room  was  the  prettiest  of  sights 
on  these  hot  summer  nights,  when  the  tossing 
brood  flung  off  their  light  coverlids  and  lay 
167 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

with  plump  and  naked  arms  and  legs  out 
stretched  in  their  childish  dreams.  The  grand 
mother  could  not  understand  why  the  chil 
dren's  own  mothers  so  rarely  toiled  up  the 
stairs  to  enjoy  this  vision.  In  her  tender  eyes 
no  moonlight  night  was  ever  half  so  lovely,  no 
ball-room  half  so  enchanting. 

A  little  breathless  with  her  haste,  and  hold 
ing  up  her  heavy  skirts  bunched  together  in 
the  front,  Madam  Outerbrook  began  a  hurried 
counting  of  the  flock.  In  her  young  days  she 
had  had  the  care  of  her  mother's  poultry-yard, 
and  often  as  she  stood  thus  in  the  big  dormi 
tory,  or  moved  from  aisle  to  aisle  among  the 
beds,  she  thought  of  those  other  restless  broods 
she  had  with  difficulty  numbered  over  in  their 
coops.  The  sleeping  children  did  not  move  so 
distractingly  as  the  chickens  had  moved,  but 
if  she  were  tired,  as  she  too  often  was  now,  she 
would  on  a  first  count  make  them  out  one  or 
two  more  than  thirty-seven  or  one  or  two  less. 
She  was  never  satisfied  until  by  two  counts 
they  proved  an  odd  thirty-seven.  It  did  not 
surprise  her  now  that,  with  so  much  else  of 
vital  moment  on  her  mind,  the  children  counted 
but  thirty-six  on  her  first  tally.  She  only  be 
gan  again  more  painstakingly  and  with  less 
hurry,  moving  from  bed  to  bed,  and  examin- 
168 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

ing  the  knobs  under  the  covers  that  might  be 
heads  or  pillows.  At  the  last  cot  her  heart, 
that  for  years  had  been  beating  less  and  less 
strongly,  began  to  throb  sharply.  The  count 
again  was  one  short  of  thirty-seven.  A  thin 
night  taper  shone  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and 
lifting  it  in  hands  that  trembled  a  little,  she 
made  her  round  again,  pausing  long  at  each 
bed.  There  were  Minnie's  two  boys  and  one 
girl ;  there  was  John's  boy  safe  enough  ;  there 
should  be  a  girl  of  John's  too.  No  ;  she  was 
grown  now;  she  was  Bianca,  down-stairs  danc 
ing.  Josie's  big  twins  in  this  bed;  her  boy — 
he  too  was  old  enough  to  be  dancing  down 
stairs.  There  should  be  thirty-seven  children 
without  Bianca  and  Josie's  boy.  Madam  Outer- 
brook's  head  began  to  swim.  All  the  while  she 
was  confusedly  trying  to  sort  out  her  lost  lamb, 
if  one  were  lost,  she  was  seeing  shocking  visions 
of  some  one  of  these  well-worshipped  little 
bodies  lying  pitifully  in  the  bottom  of  the  pond, 
or  smothered  in  her  barn,  or  lost  perhaps  in  her 
stable  in  some  more  horrible  fashion.  It  seemed 
to  her  at  first  impossible  to  identify  her  loss, 
but  she  was  of  a  generation  of  fighters,  and  en 
durance  came  in  her  blood,  thin  if  it  now  was. 
The  little  taper  was  still  burning,  forgotten  in 
her  hand,  when,  white  as  a  sheet,  she  walked 
169 


OF    HER    OWN   HOUSEHOLD 

across  the  brilliantly  lit  ball  -  room  ;  but  her 
step  was  steady,  and  she  knew  which  aston 
ished  daughter  to  stand  before,  and  just  which 
grandchild  to  demand  of  her. 

"  Katherine,  when  did  you  last  see  Jimmy 
Dick  ?" 

"  Oh,  mercy,  mother,  what  is  the  matter  ?  I 
saw  him — why,  I  saw  him — I  saw  him — " 

"  Did  you  see  him  at  supper  ?"  asked  Madam 
Outerbrook,  sternly. 

"  I — I  was  out  driving." 

"  Did  you  see  the  child  at  dinner  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  remember.  His  nurse  must  have 
seen  him.  Isn't  he  in  bed  ?" 

"  He  is  not  in  bed,"  answered  Madam  Outer- 
brook,  sharply.  "  Somebody  bring  me  the 
child's  nurse." 

Somebody  brought  the  child's  nurse  to  the 
ball-room,  while  all  the  mothers  streamed  wildly 
in  their  gay  attire  up  the  stairway  and  into 
the  curved  wing,  identifying  their  own  off 
spring.  The  grandmother  had  made  no  mis 
take.  It  was  Jimmy  Dick  who  was  missing, 
and  no  search  in  any  convenient  spot  revealed 
him.  It  appeared  there  had  been,  for  some 
reason,  a  "swapping"  of  charges  among  the 
nurses  at  dinner-time,  and  again  at  supper,  and 
in  the  change  Jimmy  Dick  had  been  "  mislaid." 
170 


OF    HER    OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

Such  was  the  nurse's  story.  A  little  further 
inquiry  left  no  possibility  of  doubt  that  Jimmy 
Dick,  aged  four,  had  been  mislaid  since  his 
morning  bath,  and  this  fact  once  established, 
the  wildest  confusion  reigned.  Half-dressed, 
half -crying  children,  brought  down  in  their 
parents'  arms,  were  hurriedly  questioned.  The 
scared  faces  of  the  negro  nurses  grew  the  more 
ashy  under  cross-examination.  It  was  all  use 
less.  No  one  knew  anything  whatever  of  Jim 
my  Dick.  Madam  Outerbrook,  a  commanding 
if  trembling  figure,  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
polished  floor,  issuing  her  orders. 

"  Ring  the  bell !"  ordered  the  mistress  of  the 
plantation.  "  Have  out  every  negro  in  the 
quarters.  Light  torches  and  get  lanterns. 
Nobody  shall  sleep  or  eat  until  the  child  is 
found." 

In  the  house  she  set  the  women  servants 
to  work  turning  over  every  article  of  furniture, 
every  bed  and  closet.  Out-doors  negro  men's 
voices  were  calling  the  child's  name,  the  soft 
gloom  broken  by  their  moving  torches  and  lan 
terns.  Madam  Outerbrook  could  not  head  the 
search  in  body,  but  she  did  in  brain  and  spirit. 

"  Get  up,  Katherine  !"  she  said,  sternly,  to  the 
child's  mother  sobbing  at  her  feet.  "  This  is  no 
time  to  cry."     And  rising  obediently,  Kather- 
171 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

ine  choked  down  her  sobs,  following  the  grand 
mother  from  room  to  room,  from  veranda  to 
veranda,  from  garden  walk  to  garden  walk. 

"Come  and  rest,  my  child,"  said  Madam 
Outerbrook,  more  gently  at  last.  "  We  have 
looked  in  every  spot  that  you  and  I  can  reach. 
Don't  give  way,  Katherine  ;  they  may  find  him 
outside.  Here  is  Count  Malleville.  Ah,  my 
dear,  faithful  friend,  how  exhausted  you  look  ! 
Do  you  bring  any  news  ?  None  ?  They  have 
beaten  out  all  the  corn-fields  —  the  tangle? 
Yes,  and  the  wheat-fields  ?" 

Count  Malleville,  toiling  at  the  head  of  the 
searchers,  had  come  back  to  say  they  and  he 
were  satisfied  that  the  child  was  not  on  the 
plantation.  He  looked  at  Madam  Outerbrook 
with  an  anxious  look  in  his  kind  eyes. 

"  Madame,  I  hate  to  suggest  it,  but — they — 
they — do  you  permit  that — " 

"Tell  them  to  drag  the  pond,"  said  Madam 
Outerbrook,  desperately,  turning  away  as  she 
spoke.  For  the  first  time  since  the  child's  loss, 
yielding  to  weakness,  she  stumbled  and  fell 
forward  heavily  against  the  side  of  the  house. 
As  she  did  so  she  drew  back  with  a  terrified 
cry.  A  great  roll  of  matting,  taken  up  from 
the  floor  of  the  ball-room  and  thrust  out  of  the 
way  upon  the  veranda  floor,  had  lain  between 
172 


OF    HER    OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

her  and  the  wall,  and  at  the  touch  of  her  foot 
the  roll  started  and  turned.  With  piercing 
cries  it  rolled  over  and  over  under  their  aston 
ished  gaze,  while  in  their  bewildered  ears  it 
still  wailed  louder  and  louder,  angry,  fright 
ened  cries,  which  doubled  in  volume  as  the 
great  bundle  turned  on  and  over  the  edge  of 
the  veranda  to  drop  on  the  soft  grass  below. 
There,  turning  still,  it  fell  apart ;  while  from 
what  had  been  the  hollow  centre  of  the  roll 
rose  a  hungry,  cross,  and  sleepy  little  boy — 
Jimmy  Dick — upon  whom,  tossing  off  the  ver 
anda  exactly  as  the  matting  had  rolled,  fell 
Jimmy  Dick's  mother,  laughing,  crying,  scold 
ing,  and  calling  out  to  the  others  even  as  she 
fell.  In  a  moment  she  was  surrounded  by  those 
who,  like  her,  were  at  once  laughing,  crying, 
and  scolding.  Then  the  whole  cavalcade  dis 
appeared  almost  as  quickly  as  it  had  gathered, 
carrying  off  the  central  figures  into  the  house. 
Jimmy  Dick  had  only  been  drowsy  —  who 
was  not  in  this  hot  weather  ?  —  and  seeing  a 
hole,  he  had  crawled  into  it,  to  sleep  a  trifle 
too  well.  That  was  all.  The  servants  were 
recalled,  the  children  dismissed  to  their  beds ; 
and  in  a  time  incredibly  short,  floating  out  to 
the  veranda  to  Madame  Outerbrook'ssore  ears, 
came  the  sound  of  reviving  music. 
i73 


OF    HER    OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"  Where  is  grandmamma?"  "Where  can 
mother  be?"  she  heard  asked  within  over  and 
over,  but  she  did  not  move  or  speak  until  the 
charming  face  of  her  favorite  grandchild,  Bi- 
anca,  was  framed  in  the  open  window  that 
looked  out  from  the  ball-room.  Then,  though 
Count  Malleville's  arm  was  supporting  her 
trembling  frame,  Madam  Outerbrook  only 
leaned  forward  to  look  back  pathetically  and 
entreatingly  into  Bianca's  eyes.  With  a  wonder 
ing  gaze  in  return,  in  which  rose  a  pretty  dawn 
ing  sympathy,  Bianca  slowly  and  silently  with 
drew,  drawing  the  curtains  together  behind  her. 

"Grandmamma's  all  right,"  Madam  Outer- 
brook  heard  her  clear  voice  saying.  "  But  she 
says  she's  a  good  deal  shaken,  and  she  wants 
to  be  let  alone." 

The  two  old  lovers  stood  silent. 

"  My  dear  friend,  will  you  look  in  at  the  win 
dow  and  see  if  my  Katherine  is  in  the  room  ?" 
said  Madam  Outerbrook  tremulously  at  last. 
Her  voice  sounded  in  her  own  ears  like  that  of 
an  old  woman  for  the  first  time.  Count  Malle- 
ville  stepped  forward  and  looked  in  cautiously 
between  the  curtains. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "  she  is  zare.  She  passes 
now  before  ze  window.  Would  you  be  pleased 
to  see  her  yourself,  my  dear  lady  ?" 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"  She  is  not  dancing  !"  exclaimed  Madam 
Outerbrook,  and  Count  Malleville  hesitated. 
He  was  quite  prepared  to  say  whatever  he 
thought  would  most  soothe  Katherine's  moth 
er,  irrespective  of  truth,  but  he  was  not  sure 
what  she  wanted.  Madam  Outerbrook  seemed 
to  read  his  hesitation,  and  with  uncertain 
step  came  to  his  side.  Taking  the  arm  he  in 
stantly  offered,  and  leaning  heavily  on  it,  she 
looked  in  through  the  curtains.  There,  waltz 
ing  and  laughing,  a  little  wildly  perhaps  in 
their  reaction,  were  Katherine  and  her  hus 
band,  dancing  together.  Madam  Outerbrook 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  whirling  pair, 
then  dropped  the  curtain  and  turned  sharply 
away.  As  she  did  so  she  was  face  to  face  with 
Count  Malleville  in  the  dim  light. 

"  Suppose,"  she  began  with  difficulty,  both 
lips  and  voice  quivering — "suppose,  dear  friend, 
that  we  were  to  let  our  young  people,  Charles 
and  Bianca,  marry  and  —  and  live  here  in  the 
centre  of  this — this  house,  and  then — my  dear, 
dear  friend — couldn't  you  live  in  one  of  the 
curved  wings  and  I  in  the  other  ?  Do — do  you 
follow  me  ?" 

Monsieur  Malleville  drew  nearer,  and  looked 
down  quickly  and  silently  into  her  agitated 
face.  She  spoke  more  steadily  : 


OF    HER   OWN    HOUSEHOLD 

"  I  mean,  would  you  be  willing  to — to  close 
your  house  and  live,  not — not  in  mine,  but  in 
what  would  be  the  home  of  Charles  and  Bi- 
anca  ?" 

Monsieur  Malleville  was  still  silent,  and  she 
went  on  distressedly  :  "It  isn't  that  we  can't 
feel  as  much  as  these  young  people.  It  isn't 
that  at  all.  It's  that  we  feel  so  much,  oh,  so 
much  more  than  they  !  If  only  we  had  their 
strength  of  body  and  our  power  to  feel  !  But 
we  haven't,  dear  friend  ;  no,  we  haven't.  At 
least  I  find  I  haven't.  Grandmammas  shouldn't 
be  agitated."  She  laughed,  with  a  catch  in  her 
breath.  "  You  in  one  wing,  I  in  the  other,  our 
dear  children  dividing,  uniting  us —  Don't — 
don't  you  follow  me  ?" 

Count  Malleville's  pause  was  but  for  a  mo 
ment.  The  next,  whatever  his  emotion,  he 
had  straightened  himself  and  stood  as  erect  as 
ever  in  his  youngest  days.  His  bearing  was  as 
proud  as  that  of  any  ancestor  of  his  house,  his 
voice  as  tender  and  as  enriched  with  feeling  as 
if  he  were  indeed  his  nephew  Charles  and  she 
her  granddaughter  Bianca.  "  I  follow  you  to 
ze  grave,  dear  friend,"  he  said,  firmly  and 
gently,  "  in  whatever  compacity  ze  wisdom  of 
my  dear  lady  shall  have  chosen." 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

"  A  word  fitly  spoken  is  like  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of 
silver." — PROV.  xxv.  ii. 

"DISREPUTABLE  weather!  —  simply  disrepu 
table  !"  murmured  Mr.  Atwood. 

He  looked  out  from  under  the  comfortable 
shelter  of  his  umbrella  as  he  spoke. 

The  rain  was  falling  from  the  heavens  in 
whirling  sheets  of  silver.  From  a  roof  just 
ahead  of  him  the  spouting  had  given  up  carry 
ing  off  the  flow.  The  water  ran  over  it  in 
streams,  which  the  wind  caught  again  and  flung 
aside  in  the  air,  breaking  them  into  raindrops 
once  more. 

Mr.  Atwood  paused  and  watched  the  tangle 
for  a  moment ;  then  shrugging  the  collar  of  his 
heavy  overcoat  still  higher,  and  dexterously 
grasping  his  umbrella  handle  close  by  the  ribs, 
he  struggled  on. 

Around  the  street  corner,  and  approaching 
the  point  of  the  angle  which  Mr.  Atwood  was 

M  177 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

nearing,  another  figure  was  battling  against 
the  weather;  but  where  the  man  showed  a 
certain  vigor  and  enjoyment  in  resistance, 
the  woman — for  it  was  a  woman,  and  a  young 
one — walked  with  a  nervous  rapidity,  and  an 
apparent  heedlessness  of  the  wind's  efforts  to 
turn  her  light  umbrella  inside  out. 

At  the  street  corner  the  big  steadily  advan 
cing  umbrella  and  the  little  wavering  one  met 
with  a  crash  which  brought  the  respective 
owners  to  an  abrupt  stand.  They  disengaged 
their  weapons,  and  peered  out  at  each  other 
through  the  mist. 

"  Celeste !  Why,  my  dear  child !"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Atwood. 

He  raised  his  hand  quickly  to  his  hat,  but 
only  to  hold  it  in  place,  not  in  salute. 

Civilities  die  a  natural  death  in  a  whirlwind. 

The  gust  of  air  seized  the  girl's  bobbing  um 
brella,  and  settled  the  question  of  turning  it 
wrong  side  out  once  and  forever.  In  the  same 
moment  Mr.  Atwood's  covering  swept  over  her 
like  a  great  sheltering  wing. 

"Come  here,  child,"  he  said;  "there  is  room 
for  one  more  in  the  ark.  Throw  that  wreck  of 
silk  and  whalebone  in  the  gutter,  and  come  un 
der  gingham  for  once  in  your  life." 

Celeste  obeyed,  taking  his  offered  arm.  Con- 
178 


APPLES   OF    GOLD 

versation  was  impossible  until  the  corner  was 
passed  where  the  four  winds  of  heaven  seemed 
to  have  appointed  a  rendezvous.  Then  Mr. 
Atwood  looked  down  at  his  companion's  cos 
tume  and  smiled. 

"  Thin  shoes,  new  gloves,  and  a  silk  sieve 
water-proof !  May  I  ask,  madame,  where  you 
are  going?" 

"  I  am  taking  a  walk,"  said  the  girl,  speaking 
for  the  first  time. 

Mr.  Atwood  laughed.  "  Were  Celeste,"  he 
corrected,  "  were.  You  are  being  taken  home 
now,  my  dear ;  there,  I  trust,  to  be  well  scolded, 
as  these  many  moons  have  lapsed  since  the 
honey-moon." 

He  looked  down  suddenly  at  the  hand  on  his 
arm,  then  into  the  face  by  his  side,  where  there 
were  drops  of  water  which  he  did  not  think 
were  rain.  The  lips  were  as  tremulous  as  the 
hand. 

"  Old !  Heavens,  how  old  you  make  me 
feel !"  said  Mr.  Atwood,  anxiously  examining 
the  ribs  of  his  umbrella.  "  Here  you  are,  a 
sedate  matron,  and  I  remember  the  first  day  I 
visited  your  family,  and  caught  you,  a  little  tot, 
with  long  shaving  curls  pinned  to  your  yellow 
pigtails  to  eke  them  out.  You  don't  remember 
it,  but  I  do.  You  were  a  pretty  child,  Celeste. 
179 


APPLES    OF   GOLD 

You  might  have  been  a  good  one,  too,  if  we  had 
spoiled  you  less." 

A  great  drop,  which  again  was  not  rain,  fell 
on  Mr.  Atwood's  sleeve.  Without  turning  he 
talked  on.  "What  business  have  you  to  be 
out  a  day  like  this  ?  The  wind  is  enough  to 
make  you  hoarse  for  a  week,  let  alone  the 
dampness.  Here,  take  my  handkerchief  and 
tie  it  about  your  throat." 

Celeste  took  the  handkerchief  he  offered, 
with  a  little  hysterical  laugh. 

"That  is  just  like  you,"  she  said,  openly 
drying  her  eyes.  "  Ignore,  ignore,  always  ig 
nore — appearances,  always  appearances  !" 

"  I  don't  think  you  can  quite  quarrel  with  me 
on  that  score.  Here  I  am  walking  up  a  thor 
oughfare  with  a  weeping  young  woman  cling 
ing  to  my  arm,  and  all  the  '  Quaker  ladies  '  in 
the  puddles  staring  at  us.  Could  Mrs.  Grundy 
ask  for  more  ?" 

"  Don't  laugh,"  cried  Celeste,  hysterically, 
"  pray  don't !" 

Mr.  Atwood  turned  and  stood  quite  still  for 
a  moment,  looking  into  her  face. 

Then   he  lifted  the  umbrella   slightly,  and 

looked  out   from   under   it.     They   had    been 

walking  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm,  but  now  he 

altered  their  course  to  a  cross  street,  where  the 

1 80 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

inner  edge  of  the  farther  pavement  was  com 
paratively  sheltered. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  we  have  miles  of  way  be 
fore  us.  My  handkerchief  is  a  large  one,  and 
my  reputation  can  stand  it.  You  may  tell  me 
what  it  is  if  you  wish,  and  if  I  can  help  you  ; 
if  not,  you  may  cry  your  cry  out  with  the 
weather,  and  then  I  will  take  you  home." 

They  walked  on  in  silence.  At  last  Celeste 
spoke. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  thoughtfully—"  I  think 
that  I  shall  tell  you.  I  am  so  sorely  in  need 
of  help,  and  the  wind  has  blown  you  to  me. 
My  trouble  is  about  my  husband." 

Mr.  Atwood  laid  his  hand  quickly  on  the 
one  in  his  arm.  He  shook  his  head,  half 
smiling. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  the  wind  never  meant  that. 
It  blew  you  to  me  because  it  knew  I  could  be 
heartless  enough  to  send  you  away  without 
letting  you  speak.  No,  whatever  it  be,  whether 
great  or  small,  if  it  concerns  your  married  life, 
tell  no  one.  Fight  it  down.  Put  it  behind 
you.  Do  anything  but  talk." 

"Then  you  too  fail  me,"  said  Celeste,  bit 
terly. 

Mr.  Atwood's  voice  grew  graver,  his  manner 
more  serious. 

181 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

"You  must  not  misunderstand  me.  You 
know  me  as  always  devoted  to  your  interests. 
I  have  no  wish  to  learn  your  secret.  My  ad 
vice  to  you  is  to  keep  it.  At  the  same  time,  if 
you  need  help,  if  you  need  me,  I  am  here." 

"  I  must  have  help,"  she  answered,  in  a 
choked  voice ;  "  I  have  just  discovered  that 
my  husband  is  a  liar." 

Mr.  Atwood  uttered  an  exclamation  of  in 
credulity.  "  A  liar  !  Impossible,  Celeste  !" 

"  You  thought  it  a  lovers'  quarrel,  did  you 
not  ?  Now,  will  you  listen  ?  As  you  are  a 
lawyer  and  a  man  of  the  world,  you  may  un 
derstand." 

"  I  am  your  old  friend,  and  your  husband's," 
he  answered,  gravely.  "  Some  one  has  misled 
you  maliciously." 

"What  I  know  I  discovered  myself." 

"  Then  you  are  mistaken." 

"  No,  I  tell  you  I  know  it.  He  has  been  de 
ceiving  me  for  months.  Do  you  suppose  I  ac 
cepted  light  evidence  ?" 

Mr.  Atwood  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  then 
he  spoke  simply. 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  "that  he  has  been  un 
faithful  to  you  ?" 

Celeste  lifted  her  head  proudly,  her  color 
rising. 

182 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

u  No,  that  humiliation  I  am  spared.  My 
husband  is  still  my  husband." 

The  expression  of  troubled  gravity  on  Mr. 
Atwood's  face  lightened. 

"Then,"  he  replied,  with  decision,  "his  wife 
must  be  his  wife." 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I  shall  return 
to  my  mother,"  said  Celeste,  quickly. 

Apparently  Mr.  Atwood  did  not  hear  her. 

"What  is  it  that  has  happened  ?"  he  asked. 

Celeste  flushed  painfully.    Her  eyes  dropped. 

"  How  can  I  bring  myself  to  tell  it  ?"  she 
cried,  bitterly.  "  I  am  so  ashamed  !  If  it  were 
not  so  contemptible  ! — its  hideousness  lies  in 
its  smallness." 

There  was  almost  a  smile  in  Mr.  Atwood's 
eyes  as  he  looked  down  at  her. 

"Child,"  he  said,  half  sadly, half  whimsically, 
"  men  are  not  great." 

She  glanced  up  quickly. 

"  Ah,  you  have  not  heard  yet.  I  have  not 
told  you.  You  know  how  my  fortune  is  left 
to  me  ?" 

"  Yes ;  by  your  father's  will  it  was  left  you 
outright,  was  it  not  ?" 

"  Leaving  me  outright  you  would  better  say," 
corrected  the  girl,  with  a  laugh  which  was  not 
good  to  hear.  "  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  a  penny 
183 


APPLES   OF    GOLD 

of  it.  I  have  been  reinvesting.  My  father's 
investments  were  too  old  -  fashioned.  You 
have  no  idea  how  easy  it  was  ;  I  had  only  to 
sign  papers,  and  my  husband  did  all  the  rest. 
I  was  to  be  troubled  with  nothing.  Yes 
terday —  it  is  the  old  story  —  my  husband 
gave  me  a  box  of  papers  to  assort,  and  among 
them  I  stumbled  on  a  letter  which  I  read  twice 
before  I  understood.  It  was  an  acknowledg 
ment  of  almost  the  exact  amount  I  had  last 
reinvested,  dated  the  same  day  —  one  of  my 
husband's  debts  of  honor.  His  honor  !  I  un 
derstood  then  why  I  was  not  to  be  troubled." 

Whatever  were  Mr.  Atwood's  thoughts,  they 
were  not  expressed  in  his  face.  His  eyes  were 
fastened  on  the  lower  points  of  his  umbrella, 
from  which  the  water  dropped  ceaselessly. 
His  countenance  was  inscrutable. 

"  Had  you  no  further  evidence  ?"  he  asked, 
quietly. 

"  In  plenty.  It  rolled  up  like  a  snowball.  I 
have  an  unfortunate  memory  for  dates  and 
sums.  Each  one  of  my  reinvestments  ante 
dated  some  settlements.  Do  you  suppose  I 
was  easier  to  convince  than  you  ?  Compara 
tively  speaking,  they  all  agreed." 

"  With  what  ?" 

"  The  other  papers." 

184 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

"The  other  papers?  Ah,  Eve  — Eve.  It 
has  been  so  since  the  first  little  red  apples 
were  made.  Child,  I  could  almost  wish  you 
had  remained  ignorant :  the  tree  of  knowledge 
bears  such  bitter  fruit.  Yet,  sooner  or  later  it 
must  have  come." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  that  it  would  be  best 
for  me  to  go  first  to  my  mother's  house,  and 
from  there  make  my  plans,"  said  Celeste,  with 
the  same  high-strung  composure. 

"  Once,"  answered  Mr.  Atwood,  thoughtfully, 
"  I  knew  a  woman  —  a  devoted  wife  —  whose 
husband  was  the  most  scientific  brute  with 
whom  I  ever  came  in  contact.  After  years  of 
torture  I  induced  her  to  sue  for  divorce  for 
her  children's  protection.  His  party  —  he  in 
evitably  has  one,  you  know — maintained  that 
the  root  of  all  the  trouble  lay  in  the  fact  that 
she  never  had  cared  for  him,  and  they  found 
listeners." 

"  I  shall  go  to  my  mother,"  repeated  Celeste, 
firmly. 

"  And  your  children  ?" 

"  I  shall  take  them  with  me." 

"  And  if  your  husband  claim  them  ?" 

"  I  should  contest  it." 

"In  court?" 

"  In  court,  if  necessary." 
185 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

"And  are  you  sure  that  in  after  years  they 
will  thank  you — even  if  by  so  doing  you  rescue 
their  property?" 

"  That  would  not  be  my  motive,"  she  inter 
rupted. 

Mr.  Atwood  went  on,  unheeding.  "They 
might,  perhaps,  prefer  their  mother's  and 
father's  unspotted  name  to  riches.  Children 
have  an  odd  habit  of  resenting  these  things  in 
after  life.  I  have  heard  parents  complained  of 
as  handicaps  often  enough  to  wish  that  chil 
dren  could  select  them  for  themselves." 

Celeste's  lip  curled. 

"  How  civilized  we  are  !"  she  said,  scorn 
fully.  "  You  repeat  your  little  bon  -  mots  ;  I 
smile ;  we  walk  on  with  my  life's  problem  un 
der  discussion,  and  it  strikes  neither  of  us  as 
odd." 

"  Yes,  we  are  very  civilized  ;  but  would  you 
have  us  otherwise  ?  Would  it  be  really  better  if 
I  told  you  with  brutal  directness  that  the  world 
draws  small  distinction  between  a  woman  who 
returns  of  choice  to  her  family  and  a  woman 
returned?  Suppose  I  pointed  out  to  you  baldly 
that  there  are  always  two  sides  told  to  a  story  ; 
that  tongues  in  plenty  would  say  you  should 
have  given  the  money  ;  and,  finally,  that  your 
children  may  live  to  curse  the  day  when  their 
1 86 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

mother  published  their  father's  shame — would 
that  be  better  ?" 

He  could  feel  that  she  winced. 

"  Exposure  would  not  be  necessary.  He 
could  trust  to  my  silence.  I  am  in  a  position 
to  dictate  terms,  I  think.  Let  him  take  the 
bulk  of  the  property.  All  I  ask  of  him  is  that 
I  may  be  allowed  to  go  quietly,  and  take  my 
children  with  me." 

"  And  what  has  he  answered  ?" 

"  Nothing  as  yet.  When  I  met  you  I  had 
come  out  from  the  house  to  breathe  and  think 
how  best  to  speak  to  him." 

Mr.  Atwood  turned  so  sharply  that  he  almost 
faced  his  companion. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  not  yet  spoken 
to  your  husband  ?" 

"  Not  yet ;  I  shall  to-night." 

"  Thank  Heaven !"  said  Mr.  Atwood,  fer 
vently.  "  Thank  Heaven,  my  dear  child  !  Ce 
leste,  your  good  angel  watched  over  you." 

She  laughed,  mirthlessly. 

"  Over  me  ! — me  !  If  I  have  such  an  one, 
'  peradventure  he  sleepeth,  or  he  is  on  a  jour 
ney.'  If  an  innocent  woman  was  ever  deliv 
ered  into  the  hands  of  the  unrighteous,  I  have 
been." 

"  No,  you  are  saved,  you  and  your  children. 
187 


APPLES  OF    GOLD 

Your  husband  must  never  know  of  your  dis 
covery." 

Celeste  looked  up  in  amazement.  "  Leave 
him  and  give  no  reason  !  It  would  not  be  pos 
sible." 

"  No,  that  would  not  be  possible  ;  but  this 
will.  You  must  go  back  to  your  home  and 
your  husband,  resolved  to  pick  up  your  life  in 
silence  where  you  meant  to  lay  it  down.  It 
is  your  only  chance  for  happiness,  and  for  your 
children's  future." 

As  she  grasped  his  meaning,  Celeste  with 
drew  from  him  with  a  gesture  almost  of  ab 
horrence. 

"  Do  you  realize  what  this  is  that  you  are 
telling  me  to  do  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  who  have 
never  known  what  a  lie  was  !  You  are  telling 
me  to  live  one  from  now  until  I  die — to  make 
my  whole  life  a  masque — to  act  a  part  day  by 
day  and  hour  by  hour." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  passionate  tears.  Her 
voice  broke. 

"  It  is  your  hard  part  to  play,"  said  Mr.  At- 
wood,  slowly,  "  but  you  will  play  it." 

"  Never  !" 

"  You  will  play  it  for  your  children  and  for 
your  children's  father.  Where  others  love  to 
remember,  you  must  learn  to  forget.  Where 
1 88 


APPLES   OF    GOLD 

others  unfold  their  heart's  secrets,  you  must 
wrap  yours  away.  It  will  be  cruelly  hard  at 
first.  It  will  tax  all  your  strength,  all  your 
high  spirit ;  but  you  will  succeed." 

"  Let  me  understand,"  said  Celeste,  in  a  re 
pressed  voice,  "  just  what  you  are  mapping  out 
for  me." 

"  I  want  you  to  wipe  yesterday  and  to-day 
out  of  your  life,  letting  no  one  suspect — hardly 
admitting  to  yourself — that  they  have  made  a 
difference.  Train  yourself  to  forget,  forgive 
ness  will  follow." 

Celeste  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  I  could  never  forget.  I  can  forgive, 
but  it  must  be  from  a  distance.  I  cannot  live 
with  him.  I  cannot  be  his  wife  and  the  mother 
of  his  children." 

"  Yet  you  are  both,  irreparably.  You  have 
put  your  hand  to  the  plough,  and  you  may  not 
look  back.  You  have  come  out  from  your 
people ;  you  have  formed  a  household  of  your 
own.  You  have  no  moral  right  now  to  let  it 
drop  apart." 

"  And  you  think  it  could  be  bound  together 
with  a  lie  ?" 

Mr.  Atwood  smiled. 

"  There  spoke  your  Puritan  grandparents. 
The  Truth— the  Te-ruth,  in  two  syllables— a 
189 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

trifle  through  the  nose — and  at  any  cost.  Why 
not  the  Truth  of  Saint  Francis  :  '  Better  to 
withhold  than  to  speak  unkindly?'  Let  me  ask 
you  one  question.  You  have  assured  me  that 
your  husband  cares  for  no  other  woman — but 
does  he  still  care  for  you  ?" 

"  Can  you  call  this  caring  ?" 

"  Perhaps.  I  know  that  yours  was  a  love- 
match  to  begin  with.  Would  you  have  said 
yesterday,  before  this  discovery,  that  there 
had  been  any  change  in  your  husband  ?" 

"  No-o,"  she  answered,  hesitatingly  ;  "  there 
had  been  no  change  on  the  surface." 

"And  you  ?" 

He  felt  her  arm  tremble  in  his.  There  was 
no  answer,  and  he  repeated  his  question.  Her 
voice  faltered  perceptibly. 

"  Can  you  wonder  that  my  respect  is  dead  ?" 

"  And  your  affection  ?" 

"  I  told  you  that  my  respect  was  dead.  My 
love  could  never  live  without  respect  to  feed 
it." 

"And  yet  I  have  known  fatally  numerous 
affections  that  throve  on  less,  and  without  the 
excuse  of  marriage.  I  am  not  asking  if  you 
forgive  or  if  you  respect.  I  ask  if  you  still  care 
for  your  husband  as  he  is  ?" 

The  rain  dropping  monotonously  on  the  um- 
190 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

brella  was  the  only  break  in  the  silence.  Celeste 
spoke  wearily  at  last. 

"  Yes,  I  still  care.  But  it  only  makes  it  all 
harder — more  impossible — more  miserable." 

She  broke  down  suddenly,  weeping  softly. 

"  Oh,  I  have  loved  him — and,  indeed,  he  loved 
me.  I  would  have  given  him  everything.  How 
could  he — ah  !  How  could  he  wreck  it  all !" 

Mr.  Atwood  let  her  weep  on  in  silence,  until 
her  self-control  again  asserted  itself.  Then  he 
spoke. 

"  There  shall  be  no  wreck,  dear  child.  Take 
courage ;  you  will  come  to  the  rescue.  If  I 
could  promise  you  your  first  ideal  of  love  and 
life  I  would.  As  it  is,  I  can  only  help  you  to  a 
second  best,  and  with  narrower  limits  perhaps. 
But  then  the  worm  has  to  be  content  in  its 
chestnut,  and  what  are  we  but  worms  ?" 

"  How  good  you  are,  and  how  you  under 
stand  !"  she  whispered.  "I  will  try — indeed,  I 
will  try.  Whatever  you  tell  me  I  will  do,"  she 
added,  humbly. 

Mr.  Atwood's  eyelids  dropped  for  a  moment. 
He  bent  over  Celeste's  bowed  head,  and  opened 
his  lips  to  speak  ;  then,  with  a  sudden  change, 
laid  his  hand  on  hers,  drawing  it  farther 
through  his  arm.  He  turned  in  the  direction 
opposite  to  the  one  which  they  were  taking. 
191 


APPLES   OF    GOLD 

"  Then  our  first  steps  in  the  right  path  will 
be  towards  home,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "We 
can  reach  it  quickly  from  here  by  cross-streets, 
and  my  first  orders  are  very  practical.  You  are 
to  put  on  dry  slippers  and  a  warm  gown,  and 
to  send  for  a  cup  of  hot  tea," 

She  smiled  sadly,  "  If  that  were  all !  And 
then  ?" 

"Then  the  next  is  practical  also,  if  not  so 
easy.  This  leakage  of  your  property  must  be 
stopped  at  once." 

Celeste  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "That 
is  the  last  point  to  consider." 

"  No,  it  is  the  first.  Remember,  I  have  known 
your  husband  as  long  as  you  have,  perhaps 
longer ;  and  I  know  him  as  one  man  knows 
another.  He  will  not  enter  into  obligations 
with  no  means  of  meeting  them  ;  he  did  not 
before  marrying  you.  When  he  comes  to  you 
again  you  must  speak  as  lovingly  and  gently 
as  you  can,  but  with  decision.  Tell  him  you  feel 
it  is  wronging  his  children  to  transfer  such 
large  sums  on  the  judgment  of  one  mind  ;  that 
you  would  be  more  content  if  some  one  else 
were  consulted — any  one  he  chooses  to  name, 
provided  he  have  knowledge  on  such  subjects. 
The  objection  would  be  too  reasonable,  the  con 
dition  too  generous,  to  be  cavilled  at.  He  will 
192 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

consent,  and,  if  I  know  him  at  all,  suggest  that 
you  name  a  friend  of  your  own.  In  that  case, 
the  person  most  natural  for  you  to  mention 
would  be  myself.  He  will  not  be  likely  to  lay 
a  reinvestment  before  me  of  which  I  would  not 
approve." 

There  was  no  sarcasm  in  his  voice,  and  she 
looked  up  with  quick  humiliation  to  read  it  in 
his  face,  but  in  vain.  With  a  sudden  realiza 
tion  that  this  was  the  initiation  of  her  part, 
she  uttered  a  broken  exclamation,  as  of  phys 
ical  pain. 

"  No,  no,  it  is  impossible ;  you  overrate  my 
strength." 

As  Mr.  Atwood  looked  down  at  what  had 
been  a  face  formed  for  all  that  was  hopeful 
and  loving,  and  saw  it  now,  twisted  with  emo 
tion,  his  eyebrows  contracted,  and  a  deep  cleft 
grew  between  them.  He  spoke  with  extreme 
gentleness  : 

"  Celeste,  if  there  were  any  other  way  in  the 
world  I  should  never  insist  on  one  which  is  so 
repugnant  to  you,  but  there  is  no  other.  If  you 
destroy  your  husband's  belief  in  your  belief  in 
him,  you  rob  him  of  anything  to  live  up  to  in 
life.  When  you  withdraw  the  copestone  of 
his  self-respect,  you  set  that  of  his  ruin.  He 
could  never  look  you  in  the  face  again.  You 
N  193 


APPLES    OF    GOLD 

would  lose  everything  and  gain  nothing.  Your 
strength  is  to  sit  still.  And  besides — " 

He  paused  and  hesitated,  then  smiled  the 
kindly,  half-whimsical  smile  peculiar  to  him. 

"I  may  as  well  say  it.  Suppose,  to-day, 
every  loving  wife  in  the  world  confessed  to 
her  husband  the  exact  estimate  at  which  she 
rated  his  characteristics  in  the  tribunal  of  her 
secret  soul,  how  many  homes  would  be  left 
standing  to-morrow  do  you  think?  We  de 
mand  that  our  women  admire  us.  It  is  an  in 
nocent  vanity,  but  I  wonder  if  you  know  how 
deep  are  its  roots  ?" 

Again  Celeste  smiled  sadly. 

"  You  have  conquered  once  more,"  she  said, 
sighing,  "and  none  too  soon.  There  are  my 
door  -  steps.  Yes,  I  will  try,  and  if  I  fail,  or 
if  I  succeed,  I  shall  always  be  grateful  to 
you." 

"  You  will  not  fail.  Nature  did  not  give  you 
that  prominent  little  chin  for  nothing,  my 
child." 

"  No,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully,  "  I  think 
that  I  shall  not  fail." 

They  walked  up  the  wet  marble  steps  in  si 
lence.  Mr.  Atwood  rang  the  bell,  and  they 
stood  in  the  sheltered  vestibule,  with  that 
strangeness  already  creeping  in  which  must 
194 


APPLES   OF   GOLD 

come  sooner  or  later  after  hearts  have  been 
laid  open. 

"  There  is  one  thing  more,"  said  Mr.  At- 
wood  ;  "  all  that  has  been  said  by  you  to  me 
and  by  me  to  you  under  this  circle  of  ging 
ham  must  be  closed  with  its  closing — and  for 
ever.  I  shall  never  refer  to  it  again,  nor  must 
you." 

"  I  understand,"  she  answered,  simply. 

The  servant's  footsteps  sounded  within,  com 
ing  down  the  hallway  towards  the  door.  Ce 
leste  held  out  her  hand,  and  as  he  took  it  in 
his,  with  a  gesture  which  had  no  touch  of  gal 
lantry  in  it,  Mr.  Atwood  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"  You  will  succeed,"  he  repeated.  The  door 
opened — the  harness  of  conventionality  was 
adjusted. 

"  You  will  come  in  ?"  said  Celeste,  with  an 
interrogation  which  meant  nothing. 

"  No,"  he  responded,  in  the  same  manner, 
"  not  now.  Remember,  Celeste,  dry  shoes  and 
a  warm  gown  and  a  cup  of  hot  tea." 

"  I  shall  forget  nothing." 

He  hurried  her  gently  through  the  open 
door. 

"  And  you  are  not  to  stand  in  the  draught, 
either,"  he  added,  smiling.  "  Farewell !" 

"  Farewell,"  she  replied.  Her  lips  opened  as 
'95 


APPLES   OF    GOLD 

if  she  would  have  spoken  further,  but  the  door 
closed. 

Mr.  Atwood  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  door 
steps  outside.  His  lower  lip  was  caught  be 
tween  his  teeth,  and  the  upper  one  curled 
slightly.  The  same  deep  cleft  appeared  be 
tween  his  brows. 

"  No,  I  shall  never  forgive  him,"  he  muttered, 
as  he  descended  the  steps,  "never  —  but  you 
will.  It  was  not  about  a  woman  that  he  lied 
to  you." 


MATILDA'S  ADDRESS-BOOK 

"  DONE  it  this  time,"  said  Joseph,  coolly. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  you  had,"  retorted  his 
brother,  rushing  to  the  side  of  the  boat  and 
looking  down.  "  Hard  aground.  Next  time  I 
let  you  sail  my  boat  you'll  know  it." 

"  'Tain't  yours  ;  only  half  of  it." 

"  Well,  you  sha'n't  sail  my  half.  Run  aground 
in  deep  water  on  a  rock  you  knew  was  here ! 
I  tell  you,  you  did  know." 

"  Any  harm  done,  boys  ?"  asked  Marcus  Gar- 
rett,  with  a  calmness  which  was  commendable 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  a  glance  showed  him 
that  the  shore  was  well  beyond  his  limited 
swimming  powers. 

"  Naw,"  replied  Joseph,  with  the  same  phlegm 
he  had  shown  when  the  sail-boat  first  struck 
the  rock  gratingly,  quivered,  and  then  stood 
still.  "  Naw,  Robert's  just  talking  to  hear  him 
self.  This  old  boat's  banged  on  every  rock  in 
the  lake.  There  ain't  any  easier  rock  to  get 
off  than  this  one." 

197 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

"That's  so,"  said  Robert,  with  restored  good- 
humor.  "  It's  so  big  we  can  get  off  and  walk 
on  it  and  shove  the  boat  off.  It's  the  funniest 
old  rock,  anyhow — just  like  a  table.  The  water 
ain't  up  to  your  knees  anywhere." 

"  Deep  enough  at  the  edges,"  warned  the 
older  brother.  "  You  want  to  be  careful  not 
to  walk  off  it  if  you  don't  like  a  ducking.  This 
is  about  the  deepest  part  of  the  lake,  I  guess. 
We'll  all  have  to  pull  off  our  shoes  and  stockings; 
then  we  can  shove  her  off  in  no  time.  You'd  bet 
ter  push  your  stockings  into  your  pockets,  Mr. 
Garrett,  and  tie  your  shoe-strings  together  and 
hang  your  shoes  over  your  neck,  like  mine. 
You  never  know  what'll  happen.  That's  it. 
Now  !" 

A  few  moments  later  they  were  all  three  out 
on  the  table-like  rock,  up  to  their  ankles  in 
water,  with  shoes  off  and  trousers  rolled  up, 
pulling  and  pushing  and  tugging  at  the  heavy 
boat. 

"There  she  goes,  she's  off  !"  shouted  Robert, 
as  the  boat  lurched  suddenly  and  righted  her 
self. 

"  Look  out !    Don't  fall  off  the  rock  !"  cried 

Joseph,  in  the  same  breath,  and,  heeding  the 

warning,  Marcus  Garrett  drew  back  hastily  to 

safety.     The  next  moment  he  was  fairly  rub- 

198 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

bing  his  amazed  eyes.  How  the  lads  had  done 
it  he  was  a  trifle  too  far  past  his  own  boyhood 
to  exactly  know,  but  somehow,  at  a  word  from 
one  of  them,  there  was  a  rush  and  a  bound,  a 
flashing  of  bare  white  legs  over  the  gunwale,  a 
thumping  of  bare  feet  on  the  wooden  decks,  a 
squealing  of  ropes  and  a  tightening  of  the  sail, 
and  the  boys  and  the  boat  were  well  away  from 
the  rock  with  its  solitary  occupant.  It  never 
occurred  to  Marcus  but  that  they  would  im 
mediately  return  for  him.  Even  when  he  saw 
the  sail-boat  heading  for  the  farther  shore,  and 
observed  the  relentlessly  immovable  backs 
of  two  tousled  heads  against  the  sail,  he  still 
believed  this  to  be  one  of  those  mysterious 
manoeuvres  of  sail-boats  whereby  they  attain 
their  destination  though  heading  in  every  di 
rection  save  the  place  they  are  bound  for.  But 
as  he  stood  there  on  the  rock  patiently  waiting 
for  the  boys'  return,  a  sudden  flush  spread  up 
and  over  his  face  that  he  felt  extended  down 
to  his  very  feet,  plunged  as  they  were  in  the 
cool  bosom  of  the  lake.  The  deliberation  and 
the  enormity  of  this  outrage  was  in  that  mo 
ment  apparent  to  him,  for  a  familiar  air  came 
floating  back  to  him  from  the  disappearing 
boat.  The  air,  not  the  words,  was  perfectly 
clear  to  Marcus.  Familiar  as  the  refrain  was, 
199 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

he  could  not  at  the  moment  place  it ;  but  that 
it  was  sung  derisively,  and  sung  to  mock  him, 
was  only  too  plain. 

Though  a  degree  of  innocence  had  betrayed 
him  into  this  position,  Marcus  was  not  so  in 
nocent  as  to  believe  there  was  still  a  chance 
of  his  merciless  tormentors  relenting  or  re 
turning  for  him.  Why  they  had  thus  chosen 
to  pillory  him  he  could  not  decide.  He  could 
only  wait  for  a  chance  rescue,  praying  that 
it  might  come  shortly,  and  not  in  a  shape  to 
render  his  position  more  intolerable  than  it  al 
ready  was.  While  he  was  still  hot  and  angry, 
it  was  easier  to  stand,  stork-like,  first  on  one 
foot  and  then  on  the  other,  upon  a  rock  sub 
merged  in  half  a  foot  of  water;  but  as  time 
went  on,  and  his  wrath  grew  less  vehement, 
Marcus  distinctly  felt  the  loss  of  its  support. 
Nobody  was  looking  at  him,  but,  then,  at  any 
time  anybody,  somebody,  might  come  drifting 
around  the  nearest  promontory  and  discover 
him  standing,  like  St.  Peter,  on  the  surface  of 
the  waters,  the  only  visible  protuberance  on 
that  wide  expanse,  his  means  of  support  quite 
invisible  to  any  casual  eye. 

As  there  was  not  enough  wind  to  seriously 
ruffle  the  waters,  and  as  the  lake  was  too  fre 
quented  for  him  to  be  left  long  on  his  watery 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS.-BOOK 

perch,  Marcus  was  aware  that  he  lacked  even 
that  dignity  which  belongs  to  danger,  and  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  would  do  well  to  em 
ploy  his  time  in  deciding  which  way  he  might 
look  least  ridiculous  when  rescued — whether 
he  preferred  to  be  discovered  erect  and  mo 
tionless  or  wading  about  on  his  prison  confines. 
He  had  just  decided  that  the  former  attitude 
might  be  taken  as  an  effort  at  dignity,  which 
would,  his  judgment  told  him,  be  fatal,  and  he 
was  stooping  to  cautiously  feel  his  way  about 
in  the  water  when  the  splashing  of  a  quick 
paddle  near  by  struck  his  ear,  and  he  looked 
up.  As  he  looked  he  knew  that  the  worst  that 
could  have  befallen  him  had  indeed  befallen 
him. 

In  a  canoe  not  far  from  him  sat  Matilda, 
wide-eyed  and  erect  with  amazement,  her 
paddle  poised  in  her  hands,  breathless  in  her 
astonishment.  Marcus  stood  erect  also  and 
faced  her,  while  for  the  moment  neither  of 
them  spoke,  and  during  this  brief  pause  in  our 
narrative  it  becomes  imperative  to  leave  our 
hero  literally  cooling  his  heels,  and  devoutly 
wishing  the  waters  might  rise  and  swallow  him, 
while  we  explain  why  it  was  that  this  which  had 
befallen  him  was  indeed  the  worst. 

The  secret  of  this  whole  affair,  which  had 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

begun  early  in  the  summer,  lay  in  the  fact  that 
Marcus  had  discovered  that  Matilda  was  not 
so  old  as  she  thought  she  was.  Most  women 
grow  older  as  time  passes,  but  there  are  a  few 
exceptions  to  this  rule.  Matilda,  unknown  to 
others  and  to  herself,  had  been  for  some  time 
before  this  discovery  steadily  growing  younger. 
The  two  facts  that  she  was  the  youngest  and 
the  plainest  of  a  large  family  of  handsome 
daughters  had  held  Matilda  back  in  the  nursery 
and  the  school-room.  Thus  she  had  formed  the 
habit  of  maturing  slowly,  and,  after  some  years 
experience  in  the  social  world,  was  apparently  a 
grown  woman,  while  in  reality  still  nothing  but 
an  awkward  school-girl.  She  was  twenty-six 
years  old,  and  her  own  belief  that  she  was  a 
confirmed  celibate  had  taken  an  active  form — 
of  which  we  shall  speak  later — when  it  fell  to 
the  lot  of  Marcus  Garrett  to  discern  that  Ma 
tilda,  whom  every  one  else  thought  a  woman, 
and  who  surely  was  a  woman  in  years,  was  only 
then  on  the  verge  of  budding  girlhood. 

The  manner  of  his  awakening  to  this  exciting 
discovery  was  in  a  way  remarkable,  though 
bearing  the  usual  family  likeness  to  all  other 
such  adventures.  On  that  fateful  day  he  was 
lazily  floating  about  in  a  canoe,  paddling  to 
and  fro  with  no  thought  of  direction,  when  he 
202 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

looked  up  to  find  that  he  had  wandered  from 
the  accustomed  but  unbeaten  boat-paths  to 
that  side  of  the  lake  where  few  cottages  were, 
and  where  here  and  there  in  the  quiet  lagoons 
were  dotted  little  fishermen's  lodges,  built  by 
the  first  summer  settlers  and  now  more  or  less 
deserted.  On  the  lonely  porch  of  one  of  these 
lodges — it  was  hard  to  say  if  it  were  a  porch  or 
a  wharf — sat  a  solitary  female  figure,  whom 
Marcus  did  not  at  once  recognize,  and  when  he 
did  see  that  it  was  Matilda  he  had  stumbled 
upon,  he  was  distinctly  regretful — the  more  so 
that  it  was  plain  she  had  also  recognized  him, 
and  it  was  scarcely  possible  for  him  to  with 
draw  as  speedily  as  he  desired  without  some 
exchange  of  civilities. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Matilda,  in  answer  to 
his  salutation,  and — on  such  frail  threads  do  our 
fates  hang — it  was  made  plain  to  Marcus  in 
those  two  simple  words  that  his  companionship 
was  not  desired.  There  is  in  the  repertoire  of 
all  women,  however  simple,  this  salutation  final 
and  the  salutation  which  invites.  Matilda's 
was  so  plainly  the  former  that  a  mild  curiosity 
seized  Marcus  Garrett  as  to  what  on  earth  a 
personage  so  unimportant  as  Matilda  always  ap 
peared  could  be  doing  that  made  her  wish  to 
be  alone.  As  he  drew  nearer  he  distinctly  saw 
203 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

her  draw  a  fold  of  her  drapery  over  something 
that  was  hidden  in  her  lap,  and  with  this  in 
centive,  and  with  little  else  to  amuse  him  that 
morning,  Marcus  steered  his  canoe  to  the  side 
of  the  wharf-porch,  stepping  out  lightly  into 
that  fate  which  awaited  him. 

Matilda  was  dressed  in  a  white,  soft  gown, 
with  little  pink  roses  climbing  all  over  it,  and 
there  were  pink  ribbons  on  her  wide  hat  and 
at  her  waist.  Her  cheeks  were  pink  also,  and 
her  skin  a  pretty  sunburned  brown,  except  be 
hind  her  small  ears,  where  it  was  very  white, 
with  little  curls  of  light  hair  veiling  it.  Al 
together  she  was  a  very  pretty  picture,  and 
though  he  had  met  her  many  times  before,  for 
the  first  time  Marcus  glanced  twice  at  her.  She 
looked  to  him  different,  somehow.  He  decided 
that  she  was  perhaps  better  dressed  than  usual, 
and  then,  as  she  did  not  ask  him  to  sit  down, 
which  he  would  probably  have  refused  to  do  if 
asked,  he  dropped  at  her  side  on  the  wharf,  dan 
gling  his  feet  over  the  water  as  she  was  doing. 

"  What  are  you  about  here,  all  alone  ?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  any  harm,"  replied  Matilda,  smiling. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  you  are  doing  no  harm," 
said  Marcus.  "  What's  that  you  are  hiding  in 
your  lap  ?" 

204 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

"  My  lap!"  Matilda  looked  down,  innocent 
ly.  "  Oh,  this ;  it's  nothing  but  my  Address- 
Book." 

She  held  up  a  fat  little  volume,  as  she  spoke, 
that  had  a  small  brass  label  with  "Address- 
Book"  engraved  on  it.  A  small  brass  clasp 
held  the  covers  together.  Marcus  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  take  the  book,  which  Matilda 
did  not  hold  against -him,  but  which  she  evi 
dently  only  refrained  from  doing  through  shy 
ness  or  politeness.  Marcus  knew  that  he  him 
self  was  not  acting  with  perfected  civility,  but 
he  was  rather  curious  to  see  this  hidden  book, 
and  no  one  ever  considered  Matilda's  rights 
particularly. 

"  I  don't  believe  this  is  an  Address-Book,"  said 
Marcus,  suspiciously  turning  the  volume  over. 
"  I  believe  you  are  an  authoress,  and  you  are 
stealing  off  here  to  compose.  This  book  is  a 
manuscript.  Now,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  It's  nothing  of  the  kind,"  retorted  Matilda, 
indignantly.  "  I  pledge  you  my  honor  it's  an 
Address-Book  and  nothing  else." 

"Then  if  it's  an  Address-Book  only,  I  can 
read  it." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Matilda,  coolly,  and 
after  an  attempt  to  open  the  book  Marcus  was 
not  so  sure  either,  for  the  little  brass  clasp  re- 
205 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

sisted  his  fingers.  On  looking  closely  he  could 
see  a  small  key-hole  in  its  side.  He  glanced  up 
to  find,  to  his  further  surprise,  that  Matilda 
was  laughing  at  him. 

"Here's  the  key,"  she  said.  "  It's  on  my  watch- 
chain,  but  you  can't  have  it.  I  can't  imagine 
why  you  should  care  to  see  dry  old  addresses, 
but  if  you  really  want  me  to  read  you  a  page  or 
two,  give  me  the  book  and  I'll  do  so.  No,  you 
can't  read  it  to  yourself.  If  the  sun  wasn't  so 
nice  and  hot  to-day,  and  the  air  so  sweet  and 
cool,  and  that  water  so  pretty  and  blue,  and 
those  trees  so  green  and  brown,  I  don't  believe 
I  would  open  the  book  at  all.  As  it  is,  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  read  you  a  little  of  it." 

Marcus  tried  not  to  show  her  how  she  sur 
prised  him.  Every  one  he  had  ever  known, 
however  silent  in  other  directions,  had,  as  it 
were,  their  pet  subject  on  which  they  would 
discourse  if  they  could  be  gently  led  towards 
it,  and  Marcus  was  rather  clever  in  that  kind 
of  leading.  In  this  case  he  felt  that  he  had 
somehow  dropped  accidentally  into  Matilda's 
pet  subject,  though  he  could  not  quite  make 
out  what  this  subject  was.  Certainly  she  was 
not  now  as  she  usually  was,  and  the  change  was 
to  her — and  he  began  to  believe  might  prove 
to  his — advantage. 

206 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

"  Now  this  doesn't  interest  you,  does  it  ?" 
asked  Matilda. 

She  had  taken  back  her  book,  and,  unlocking 
the  clasp,  turned  over  the  pages  a  little,  then 
read  aloud  : 

"'Mr. addressing  Miss  :  Dearest, 

I — I — I — I — '  Why,  how  perfectly  ridiculous  ! 
That  was  I,  stammering.  It's  not  so  in  the  Ad 
dress-Book,"  said  Matilda,  closing  the  volume, 
her  cheeks  very  pink  indeed.  "  You  can  finish 
this  page  for  yourself,  if  you  like.  Only  don't 
read  any  more." 

But  Marcus,  though  he  took  the  open  book 
she  handed  him,  received  it  in  a  mechanical 
hand,  and  remained  stupidly  staring  at  her  un 
til  Matilda  blushed  again  even  more  deeply 
than  she  had  as  she  read,  or  tried  to  read,  the 
manuscript  address. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  thinking  I  am  a  fool," 
she  said,  humbly,  "and  I  don't  know  but  I  am, 
only  I  know  I  have  had  that  book  for  years, 
and  I  never  before  was  fool  enough  to  try  to 
read  it  to  any  one.  Indeed,  I  had  that  plate 
made,  with  'Address- Book'  engraved  on  it,  so 
no  one  would  guess  what  the  book  really  was. 
I  thought  of  calling  it  my  '  Hymn-Book,'  but 
decided  on  this  name  finally.  I  think  the  hot 
sun  must  have  affected  my  head  to-day.  What 
207 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

made  you  come  in  here  this  morning  ?  Nobody 
ever  comes  in  here." 

Something  was  affecting  Marcus,  he  knew, 
though  he  could  not  so  exactly  define  what  it 
was.  Perhaps  it  was  the  sun.  He  only  knew 
that  blushing  became  Matilda  to  extravagance. 
She  looked  sixteen,  and  she  talked  with  a  de 
lightful  freshness  and  immaturity.  Then,  too, 
this  curious  and  significant  collection — what 
did  it  mean? 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  Marcus,  timidly,  "  if  you 
have  collected  and  written  down  here  all 
the  addresses  which  you  yourself  have  re 
ceived  ?" 

"  Dear  me,  no  !"  said  Matilda,  hastily.  "  No 
body  ever  offered  themselves  to  me.  These 
are  other  people's  offers,  and  you  don't  know 
how  hard  they  have  been  to  collect.  Almost 
every  one  vows  they  can't  remember  what  they 
said,  or  what  was  said  to  them.  I  don't  know 
whether  that's  true  or  not,  because  of  course 
I  haven't  any  way  of  gainsaying  them,  and 
then,  too,  I  never  have  asked  anybody  leading 
questions.  If  any  one  happened  to  tell  me  how 
they  got  engaged,  or  if  I  heard  it  in  any  other 
way,  I  collected  it." 

She  looked  at  Marcus  with  that  appeal  in 
her  eyes  which  bespeaks  the  true  collector's 
208 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

spirit,  and  which  is  more  insistent  than  any 
leading  question  ever  can  be. 

"  Well,"  said  Marcus,  hurriedly  turning  from 
that  phase  of  the  subject,  "people  have  col 
lected  everything  else  on  earth,  so  why  not  ad 
dresses  ?  Only  I  can't  imagine  what  suggested 
them  to  you  as  collectable ;  and  why  didn't  you 
finish  the  one  you  began  to  read  to  me  ?" 

Matilda  paused  a  moment  before  she  replied. 

"I  think  I  could  read  you  a  funny  one,"  she 
answered.  "  But  that  one  I  began  was  a  seri 
ous  one — one  of  my  best.  I  don't  know  why  I 
couldn't  finish  it." 

"  I  know,"  said  Marcus,  boldly.  He  was  re 
covering  his  wonted  self-respect.  "  And  you  will 
after  you  grow  up.  Why,  you  are  nothing  but 
a  child,  a  perfect  child  still.  How  old  are  you, 
anyhow  ?" 

"  Twenty-six,"  said  Matilda,  meekly. 

"  Twenty  -  six,  and  I'm  twenty  -  eight,"  said 
Marcus ;  which  latter  fact  seemed  to  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  former  until 
the  words  were  uttered.  Then  Marcus,  who 
was  not  a  tyro,  felt  that  he  flushed  slightly, 
and  knew  that  something  had  happened,  or  was 
about  to  happen,  which  might  prove  of  impor 
tance  to  him.  It  was  merely  a  question  of  how 
deep  or  how  shallow  was  the  impression  he  was 
o  209 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

receiving,  and  this  is  not  always  an  easy  ques 
tion  for  any  man  to  settle  at  first  blush.  On 
looking  back  at  this  conversation,  he  always 
felt  that  Matilda's  next  few  words  were  what 
brought  him  to  that  point  where  he  knew  his 
own  mind  only  too  well. 

"  You  are  very  easy  to  talk  to,"  said  Matilda, 
with  what  he  could  not  have  thought  simplic 
ity  in  another  woman,  "and  I  am  so  glad  you 
are,  for  I  was  just  sitting  here  wishing  I  had 
some  one  to  talk  to  and  advise  me  a  little.  I've 
done  something  dreadful,  and  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  about  it.  Did  you  notice  anything  queer 
about  my  face  to-day  ?" 

"Queer?"  repeated  Marcus,  gazing  at  her 
wonderingly.  "  No." 

"Well,  look  hard  at  me  and  you  will." 

Now  to  be  called  upon  to  look  hard  into  a 
soft  and  earnest  upturned  face  is  not  the  safest 
of  offered  contracts,  as  Marcus  knew  from  prac 
tical  experiences,  but  he  promptly  did  as  re 
quested,  and  it  was  from  that  moment  that  he 
himself  dated  his  captivity. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  queer — "  he  began,  but 
Matilda  interrupted  him. 

"  It's  perfectly  wonderful.  I  can  hardly  be 
lieve  it  myself,  it's  so  natural,  but,  do  you  know, 
I'm  painted  like  a  Jezebel,  and  I  feel  like  one  ! 
210 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

I  knew  you'd  be  horrified,  but  indeed  I  didn't 
mean  to  do  it.  You'll  never  tell  if  I  tell  you? 
We  had  a  lot  of  company — girls — staying  with 
us  for  the  hotel  hop  last  night,  and  I  happened 
to  run  back  into  one  of  the  rooms — I'll  never 
tell  which  one — for  something  after  they  were 
all  down-stairs,  and  there  on  one  of  the  dress 
ing-tables  was  a  little  tiny  platter  of  red  paint. 
She  had  forgotten  to  put  it  away,  you  see,  and 
I  can't  imagine  why  I  ever  did  such  a  thing, 
but  I  just  wanted  to  see  how  it  would  look, 
and  I  daubed  a  little  bit  of  it  on  one  cheek, 
and  then  I  couldn't  get  it  off  to  save  my  life. 
I  washed  and  I  washed,  and  I  scrubbed  and 
scrubbed,  and  if  you  look  you'll  see  it's  on  yet. 
Now  comes  the  worst  of  it.  I  was  so  scared, 
and  they  were  calling  and  calling  me  to  come 
down-stairs,  and  I  was  so  afraid  they'd  come 
up  and  catch  me,  and  I  couldn't  go  down  as 
I  was,  so  I  just  daubed  the  other  cheek  too, 
and  then  I  went  down-stairs.  But  the  very 
worst  of  it  all  is,  I — I — I  got  lots  of  attention 
at  the  hop  last  night.  I — I  liked  it  too,  and  I 
know  it  was  only  because  of  that  dreadful 
paint,  for  I  never  had  attention  before.  I  am 
dreadfully  afraid  I  may  do  it  again  some  time. 
I  don't  think  I  shall,  but  I  feel  I  might.  And 
then  here's  my  Address-Book.  I  couldn't  go  on 

211 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

keeping  a  collection  like  this  if  people  were  to 
be  really  attentive  to  me.  It  Avouldn't  be  nice 
or  delicate  at  all,  would  it  ?  Do  you  think  it 
immoral  to  paint  ?" 

It  is  ever  thus.  Discoveries  are  rarely  made 
singly.  A  moment  before  Marcus  had  been 
pluming  himself  on  the  fact  that  he  was  the 
first  explorer,  and  now  it  seemed  he  might 
have  rivals.  The  pretty  pink  color  which  he 
had  noted  and  admired  as  he  joined  her  was 
peculiarly  becoming  to  Matilda,  and  was  un 
doubtedly  the  source  of  her  last  night's 
triumphs.  But  as  the  bee  forgets  the  per 
fume  and  the  color  which  has  invited  him 
after  he  once  tastes  the  honey,  so  it  was  with 
Marcus. 

"  Immoral !"  he  said,  gravely.  "  Of  course 
it's  immoral  to  paint.  I  don't  like  to  tell  you 
how  immoral  painting  is.  I  would  speak  more 
plainly  if  I  were  not  sure  you  would  never  do 
so  again.  But  I  am  sure." 

"  I  never  will,"  said  Matilda,  in  an  awed 
voice. 

"And,"  Marcus  went  on,  cruelly,  "a  little 
vaseline  will  at  once  take  off  any  paint  that's 
still  on  your  face  from  last  night.  Water  does 
no  good." 

"  Oh,"  said  Matilda,  weakly,  "  thank  you.  I 
212 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

will  use  the  vaseline  just  as  soon  as  I  go 
home." 

"  But  there's  no  hurry  about  going  home  yet, 
is  there  ?"  said  Marcus. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "and  it's  very  nice  here, 
isn't  it?  I  come  here  in  my  canoe  nearly  every 
morning.  This  is  our  old  fishing-lodge,  and  I 
keep  the  key  of  it.  I  sew  and  read  and  write 
in  the  house  back  there." 

Marcus  looked  at  her  closely,  but  could  see 
no  cause  to  feed  his  own  conceit  or  blame  her 
forwardness.  She  was  undoubtedly  as  inno 
cent  as  he  had  always  hoped  he  might  some 
day  find  some  woman. 

"  Don't  you  love  the  water  ?"  asked  Matilda, 
looking  out  at  the  lake  as  one  who  makes  con 
versation  after  a  pause  too  long  to  be  quite 
comfortable ;  and  Marcus,  roused  from  his  med 
itations,  turned  and  looked  at  her.  Why  not 
then  and  now  ?  It  was,  as  Matilda  had  sug 
gested,  a  lovely,  heart -opening  day,  and  it 
seemed  to  him — it  might  have  been  merely  the 
languor  of  the  sunshine — but  it  did  seem  to 
him  that  Matilda's  soft  blue  eyes  dwelt  on  him 
a  little  lingeringly,  awaiting  his  reply.  "  Don't 
you  love — something?"  she  had  asked;  he 
couldn't  exactly  remember  what,  but  that  was 
unimportant.  Whatever  it  was,  an  obvious  re- 
213 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

ply  seemed  so  simple  and  possible  that  it  was 
really  ridiculous  to  omit  making  it.  Marcus 
felt  his  heart  beating  faster  and  faster.  His 
resolution  seized  him. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  suddenly,  "  but  I — " 

"  Oh,  wait — wait  a  minute,"  interrupted  Ma 
tilda,  in  a  burst  of  laughter.  "  That  just  re 
minds  me  of  the  funniest  thing  I  heard  to-day 
for  my  Address-Book.  It's  the  story  of  a  man 
who  couldn't  get  any  chance  to  address  the 
girl  he  wanted,  and  so  one  day  he  got  desper 
ate,  and  when  she  happened  to  say, '  Don't  you 
love  pancakes  ?'  He  said,  '  No,  but  I  love  you? 
Isn't  that  a  splendid  one  ?  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  interrupting  you.  I  was  afraid  I'd  forget 
to  tell  you.  What  were  you  going  to  say?" 

"  I  can't  remember,"  answered  Marcus,  has 
tily,  and  for  the  moment  he  thought  he  hated 
Matilda  and  everything  concerning  her,  and 
above  all  the  Address-Book.  But  he  was  mis 
taken,  for  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  a  long 
discipline. 

The  day  after  the  meeting  at  the  lodge  Mar 
cus  had  supposed  that  he  would  wake  to  laugh 
at  himself  for  a  brief  folly,  but  to  his  dismay 
what  he  did  awake  to  realize  was  that  he  had 
become  inextricably  interested  in  a  maiden 
whom  no  one  but  himself  had  discovered  as 
214 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

attractive  at  all.    The  vaseline  had  done  its 
work,  and,  as  Matilda  kept  her  promise  not  to 
repeat  her  experiment,  there  was  no  repetition 
of  her  one  brief  evening  of  triumph.     Thus 
Marcus  had  the  field  to  himself,  but  his  emp 
ty  field  was  not  to  be  easily  won.     In  the  first 
place,  the  kind  and  unsuspicious  friends  who 
were  his  hosts  were  continually  rescuing  him 
whenever  they  found  him,  as  they  thought, 
stranded  by  his  good-nature  on  the  shores  of 
Matilda's  society.      Least  of  all  did  Matilda 
realize  that  she  was  an  object  of  interest  to 
him.     She  also  was  constantly  opening  to  him 
avenues  of  escape  from  her  side,  where  in  her 
humility  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  her  any 
one  could  have  possibly  schemed  to  arrive,  or, 
arriving,  desire  to  stay.     Marcus  felt  that  his 
whole   salvation  lay  in  the  lodge  set  in  the 
lagoon,  where  he  now  considered  he  had  first 
met  Matilda.     Here,  as  often  as  he  dared,  he 
followed  her,  escaping  from  his  friends  on  the 
old  pretext  of  a  love  of  solitary  fishing.     He 
was   not  anxious  to  arouse  the  suspicions  of 
others,  but  he  found  that  his  greatest  stum 
bling-block  lay  in  the  fact  that,  try  as  he  might, 
seek  her  as  he  would,  he  could  not  arouse  the 
suspicions  of  Matilda.     He  soon  saw  unfort 
unately  well  that  he  must  make  a  set  speech 
215 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

of  some  kind,  if  he  ever  hoped  to  arouse  her 
to  a  sense  of  his  feeling  towards  her,  but  the 
circumstances  were  such  as  to  make  such  an 
effort  wellnigh  impossible  for  him. 

Every  time  when  he  succeeded  in  leading 
the  conversation  towards  the  subject  nearest 
his  heart,  Matilda  would  herself  grasp  his  care 
fully  prepared  opening  and  take  it  away  from 
him,  using  it  as  an  opportunity  to  talk  to  him 
of  the  one  thing  that  held  him  most  apart  from 
her — the  Address -Book.  Marcus  felt  bitter 
ly  that  he  could  never  endure  repeating,  as  he 
once  so  nearly  had  repeated  some  one  of  these 
odious  addresses  that  Matilda  held  collected ; 
yet  no  entreaty  of  his  ever  moved  her  to  yield 
to  him  the  book  that  he  might  read  it  for  him 
self,  and  once  for  all  learn  what  ?wt  to  say. 
Thus,  while  there  were  times  when  he  literally 
writhed  under  the  infliction  of  extracts  read 
to  him,  there  were  other  times  when  he  lis 
tened  hungrily  for  any  crumbs  of  the  book's 
contents,  ever  divided  between  supreme  thank 
fulness  that  he  was  spared  another  repetition 
and  disgust  that  his  tongue  was  again  tied. 

There  was,  however,  one  point  in  which  Mar 
cus  found  great  comfort.  Matilda  still  contin 
ued  to  blush  whenever  she  read  a  serious  ad 
dress  to  him,  but,  blushing,  she  still  continued 
216 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

to  read.  Evidently,  though  the  subject  caused 
her  some  discomfort  in  connection  with  him, 
it  was  not  displeasing  to  her — nay,  it  seemed 
to  have  a  certain  fascination. 

This  was  the  point  of  progress,  or  lack  of 
progress,  at  which  Marcus  had  arrived  in  his 
suit  when  that  occurred  which  we  have  record 
ed  at  the  opening  of  this  story.  And  it  surely 
is  not  hard  to  see,  with  this  history  given,  why 
he  felt  that  the  worst  possible  contingency  had 
arisen  when  he  looked  up  to  see  Matilda  in  her 
canoe  approaching  his  solitary  and  peculiar 
prison. 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  standing  on  ?" 
were  Matilda's  first  practical  words,  and  though 
in  the  past  Marcus  had  sometimes  felt  that  she 
rather  lacked  a  proper  sense  of  humor,  now 
he  loved  her  the  more  ardently  for  that  defi 
ciency. 

"  I'm  not  very  sure  as  to  what  I  am  standing 
on,"  Marcus  answered,  with  an  effort  at  pleas 
antry.  "  I  think  it's  a  rock  ;  but  whatever  it 
is,  I  shall  always  hereafter  swear  that  I  never 
did  stand  on  it,  and  I  shall  expect  you  to  en 
dorse  my  falsehood  as  a  kind  of  a  family  rep 
aration.  It  was,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  your  own 
brothers  who  put  me  off  their  sail -boat  and 
deliberately  left  me  here  in  this  plight." 
217 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

He  was  trying  to  speak  easily  and  playfully, 
and  really  felt  that  he  succeeded  in  a  remark 
able  degree. 

"Joseph  and  Robert !"  repeated  Matilda,  in  a 
bewildered  way.  "  I  just  met  them  going  home 
in  their  sail-boat,  and  they  never  said  a  word 
about  you.  But  then  they  did  know  I  was  on 
my  way  here,  for  I  told  them  at  breakfast  I  was 
going  to  the  lodge  this  morning." 

Marcus  turned  and  looked  behind  him.  In 
his  excitement  and  confusion  he  had  not  noticed 
that  his  marooning  had  taken  place  in  the 
mouth  of  the  lagoon  that  led  to  Matilda's  lodge. 
Matilda  went  on,  in  distress : 

"Joseph  and  Robert!  I  am  so  mortified! 
But  we'll  talk  about  that  afterwards.  The 
thing  to  do  now  is  to  get  you  off  the  rock. 
I  honestly  hope  father  '11  thrash  both  the  boys 
well.  But  how  are  we  going  to  get  you  off? 
My  canoe  only  holds  one.  Wait !  I  know  ! 
Now  don't  you  worry,  and  do  just  as  I  tell  you. 
I  was  going  to  crochet  some  cord -lace  this 
morning,  and  here's  the  ball  of  cord.  You  take 
it  and  I'll  tie  the  end  to  my  canoe,  and  you  play 
it  out  as  I  paddle  ashore.  Then  you  can  pull 
the  canoe  back  to  you  and  get  in.  Be  careful 
not  to  upset  it.  But  the  water  seems  so  shallow 
above  the  rock  you'd  be  safe  if  you  did  upset." 
218 


WHAT    IN    THE    WORLD    ARE   YOU    STANDING   ON  ?' 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

As  he  listened,  Marcus  knew  more  surely 
than  ever  that  this  was  the  one  woman  in  the 
world  for  him.  She  had  not  once  even  had  a 
smile  to  repress,  and  her  lack  of  humor,  her 
domestic  habits,  her  softness  of  heart,  which  at 
that  moment  seemed  positively  maternal,  all 
tenderly  appealed  to  him  as  so  many  comfort 
ing  and  exquisite  virtues.  He  felt  his  heart 
glow  as  his  devotion  mounted,  and  he  knew 
that  nothing  but  the  stern  facts  of  his  situa 
tion  prevented  his  then  and  there  flinging 
himself  at  her  feet,  despite  any  Address-Book 
on  earth.  As  it  was,  he  contented  himself  with 
holding  fast  the  line  that  bound  him  to  Matilda 
and  Matilda's  canoe,  as  she  paddled  hastily  to 
the  lodge  wharf,  carrying  out  her  share  of  the 
programme.  Marcus  had  then  only  to  pull  the 
cord  and  drag  the  empty  bark  back  to  him,  to 
carefully  step  into  it,  and  to  paddle  himself  to 
the  wharf.  During  that  brief  voyage  his  man 
ly  resolution  was  taken.  The  Address  -  Book 
still  intruded  itself  upon  his  thoughts,  but  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  this  episode  should  end 
his  silence,  and  this  resolution  grew  the  more 
fixed  when  Matilda  met  him  at  the  wharf  with 
the  same  softened  look  of  apologetic  gravity 
she  had  worn  from  the  first. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  the  boys  are  so  bad,"  she 
219 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

said,  as  she  led  Marcus  into  the  lodge.  "  I'm 
dreadfully  mortified,  and  so  will  father  be. 
Come  in  and  dry  yourself  a  little.  I've  light 
ed  a  fire  on  the  hearth  for  you." 

Marcus,  his  thoughts  far  enough  away  from 
the  boys  or  a  little  damp  clothing,  took  the  seat 
by  the  fire  which  Matilda  gently  urged  upon 
him,  and  while  she  considerately  withdrew  to 
the  window,  he  made  that  toilet  which  Joseph 
had  thoughtfully  arranged  for  him  to  be  able 
to  make.  He  was  thinking  he  would  plunge 
headlong  into  his  subject,  not  deciding  what 
to  say,  but  letting  his  language  command  him 
rather  than  he  his  language,  when  Matilda, 
tracing  his  silent  gravity  to  displeasure,  began, 
self-reproachfully  : 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  father  before  this  could 
happen.  That's  really  what  I  ought  to  have 
done.  Don't  you  remember  I  did  try  to  warn 
you  some  days  ago?  I  knew  the  boys  were 
hatching  some  dreadful  mischief  against  you. 
Whenever  they  begin  to  call  any  one  by  one  of 
their  horrid  nicknames,  I  always  know  they 
are  plotting  something  very  bad  against  that 
person." 

Marcus  turned  inquiringly. 

"Nickname?  You  didn't  tell  me  anything 
about  a  nickname.  I  supposed  from  what  you 

220 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

said  they'd  taken  a  boy's  spite  against  me  for 
some  unknown  reason.  That's  why  I  went 
sailing  with  them  to-day  when  they  asked  me. 
What  was  the  nickname  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  to  tell  you,"  said  Matilda,  blush 
ing,  "because  it  sounds  so  horrid.  I  don't  at  all 
know  what  they  meant  by  it,  and  they  wouldn't 
tell  me.  Perhaps  I'd  better  tell  you  now,  for 
you  may  know.  For  weeks  they've  been  calling 
you  nothing  but '  The  Weasel.'  '  The  Weasel !' 
It  does  sound  horrid,  doesn't  it  ?" 

"  The  Weasel"  repeated  Marcus,  wondering- 
ly.  "  I  can't  imagine — "  but  the  next  moment 
the  blood  rushed  to  his  forehead  and  he  stooped 
quickly  over  his  shoes,  which  he  had  removed 
as  a  necklace  and  was  then  drawing  on  his 
feet.  He  knew  now  what  was  the  familiar 
air  the  boys  had  mockingly  sung  at  him  in 
their  retreat.  The  words  and  the  air  came 
to  him  together,  and  in  an  instant  the  whole 
abominable  and  ingenious  plot,  of  which  he  was 
intended  to  become  the  willing  or  unwilling 
victim,  unrolled  before  him.  And  how  brilliant 
ly  successful  they  had  almost  been  !  It  seemed 
to  him  now  impossible,  utterly  impossible,  to 
fall  in  line  and  play  the  puppet  role  consigned 
to  him  by  these  young  reprobates,  however 
acceptable  that  role  might  be.  But  a  moment 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

before,  the  denouement  had  seemed  to  Marcus 
almost  too  near.  Now  he  felt  it  was  further 
off  than  ever.  He  sat  so  long  looking  gloomily 
into  the  fire  before  him  that  Matilda  at  last 
turned  away  with  a  timid  sigh  and  with  an 
effort  to  considerately  withdraw,  leaving  her 
guest  to  digest  the  animus  which  she  could  not 
blame  him  for  nourishing  against  herself  and 
her  family.  As  she  passed  the  table  in  the 
corner  of  the  room  she  took  up  a  book,  and 
with  that  in  her  hand  sat  down  by  the  window 
to  read.  As  he  glanced  after  Matilda  to  see 
this  last  stroke  of  fate,  it  seemed  to  Marcus 
that  it  was  useless  to  struggle  longer.  She 
was  reading  the  Address-Book. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  a  timid  voice  from 
the  window,  breaking  a  dreary  silence.  "  I  hoped 
they  were  going  to  sail  out  again,  but  they  are 
not ;  they  are  coming  up  to  the  wharf.  You 
don't  want  to  see  the  boys  yet,  do  you  ?  Oh, 
Mr.  Garrett,  I  wish  you  could  forgive  us,  but 
I  can  see  why  you  won't.  Wouldn't  you  be 
willing  to  play  a  little  trick  on  the  boys  ?  If 
you'll  hide  behind  that  screen  in  the  corner, 
I'll  tell  them  I  never  saw  you,  and  perhaps 
they'll  think  you  were  drowned.  That  would 
serve  them  right." 

A  desperate  hope  darted  through  the  brain 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

of  Marcus  Garrett,  and  in  answer  to  its  sugges 
tion  he  rose  hurriedly.  With  no  time  for  reply 
to  Matilda,  he  darted  behind  the  screen  she 
pointed  out  just  as  the  two  breathless  boys 
first  peered  in  at  the  door  and  then  burst  into 
the  lodge,  looking  eagerly  about  them. 

"  There  she  is!"  cried  Robert.  Joseph  came 
towards  his  sister  eagerly. 

"  Say,  Matilda,  did  the  Weasel  pop  ?" 

Matilda  had  half  risen  to  her  feet,  her  lips 
had  been  opened  to  speak,  but  now  they  closed 
again,  and  she  sank  back  paralyzed. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  whis 
pered,  so  weakly  that  her  oldest  brother  roared 
with  Homeric  laughter  as  response. 

"  My,  ain't  she  innocent  !  And  been  meet 
ing  him  right  here  all  summer  long !  We 
haven't  got  a  sail-boat  for  nothin'.  Don't  know 
why  we  called  him  Weasel  either, do  you?  Say, 
Milly,  you  don't  mean  you  went  and  saved  his 
life,  and  then  let  him  go,  after  all  the  trouble 
we  took?  Well,  you  are  dead  easy," 

Robert  broke  in  anxiously  : 

"  Did  somebody  else  rescue  him  ?  You  don't 
tell  us  somebody  else  took  him  off  ?  You  got 
there  in  time,  didn't  you?" 

Joseph  answered  for  his  speechless  sister. 

"  Yes.  There's  the  wet  place  on  the  floor 
223 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

where  he  stood.  Can't  you  see  it  for  yourself  ? 
— and  there's  the  fire  she  built  to  dry  him,  and 
then  let  him  off." 

"What's  the  use  in  our  working  for  her?" 
asked  Robert,  in  deep  disgust. 

Matilda,  after  her  first  vain  endeavor  to 
stem  this  torrent,  stood  gazing  wildly  from 
one  brother  to  the  other,  then  sank  back  in 
her  chair,  and,  taking  the  only  course  left  open 
to  her,  burst  into  tears. 

"There's  gratitude  for  you,"  said  Joseph, 
waving  his  hand  towards  her.  "  Here  we've 
done  as  much  and  more  for  her  than  a  mother 
would,  most  stove  the  boat  in  doing  it,  and 
now  look  at  her  !  I  wash  my  hands  of  you — 
yes,  I  do.  You  can  pop  your  own  Weasels — 
only  you  can't !" 

"  Oh  !"  sobbed  Matilda,  desperately.  "  Stop, 
do  stop  !  You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing." 

"We  know  what  we  tried  to  do,"  accused 
Joseph.  "We  tried  to  hurry  him  for  you  a  lit 
tle,  and  you  botched  the  whole  thing  as  soon 
as  you  got  hold  of  it.  Ain't  we  your  brothers  ? 
I  tell  you  he's  got  to  live  up  to  his  name.  But 
how  in  the  world  can  anybody  help  a  softy  like 
you  ?  And  he — he  must  be  a  chump  !" 

At  that  moment  the  screen  at  the  back  of 
the  room  quivered,  then  opened  wide,  and  Mar- 
224 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

cus  walked  out  from  behind  the  folds.  He 
looked  neither  to  right  nor  to  left,  but  walked 
past  the  gaping  boys  straight  to  Matilda's 
side. 

"  Matilda,"  he  said,  firmly,  speaking  to  her 
bowed  head,  "  your  brothers  are  entirely  right. 
Though  how  they  have  known  so  much  about 
us  without  condescending  to  something  like 
key-holes,  I  don't  know.  If  you  had  been  any 
body  else — but  there,  I  wouldn't  have  cared  for 
you  if  you  had  been — you  would  have  known 
all  along  that  the  only  thing  which  prevented 
my  speaking  was  this  abominable  book." 

He  took  up  the  Address-Book  which  lay  in 
Matilda's  lap,  and  with  it  held  gingerly  be 
tween  his  finger  and  thumb,  walked  to  the 
fireplace. 

"  You  built  this  fire  for  my  comfort,"  he  said, 
"  and  the  greatest  comfort  it  can  bestow  on  me 
is  by  burning  this  book.  Matilda — Matilda ! 
may  I  burn  it  ?" 

His  heart  stood  still  as  he  ended,  and — so 
potent  still  was  the  power  of  the  hated  volume 
upon  him — he  knew  with  angry  certainty  that 
the  break  in  his  voice  and  his  hesitation  were 
not  caused  so  much  by  uncertainty  as  to  what 
Matilda's  reply  might  be  as  by  dread  lest  the 
question  he  asked,  which  he  found  startingly 
p  225 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

direct  and  transcribable  in  the  asking,  might 
yet  find  lodgment  in  the  Address-Book. 

"  Matilda !"  he  called,  sharply,  in  his  distress  ; 
and  Matilda,  lifting  a  face  bathed  in  tears, 
cried  out  in  answer  : 

"  Oh,  burn,  burn  ! — and  welcome !" 
Even  as  she  spoke  the  Address-Book  fell  in 
the  flames,  and  rising,  as  Sindbad  must  have 
risen  in  the  moment  when  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Sea  no  longer  burdened  his  back,  Marcus  turn 
ed  from  the  auto-da-ft  to  discover  that  he  was 
alone  in  the  lodge  with  Matilda.  From  the 
wharf  outside  came  the  sound  of  hurrying  feet 
and  splashing  water ;  then  the  echo  of  boyish 
laughter  and  boyish  voices,  singing  in  unison 
with  each  other,  more  and  more  distant  each 
moment.  It  was  the  same  air  they  had  sunj 
when  they  left  Marcus  on  the  rock  to  encoun 
ter  his  fate,  indeed,  but  now  the  words  ah 
were  plain : 

"  Queen  Victoria's  sick  abed, 

Napoleon  has  the  measles ; 
That's  the  way  the  money  goes, 
And  Pop  goes  the   Weasel" 


Matilda  and  Marcus  heard  them  not.    Tht 

Address-Book  was  a  blazing  ruin  in  the  back- 

226 


MATILDA'S    ADDRESS-BOOK 

ground.  Marcus  had  lived  up  to  his  cogno 
men,  and  Matilda — Matilda,  contrite  for  past 
blindness,  wide-eyed  for  the  present,  and  ra 
diant  for  the  future  —  was  his.  What  more 
was  there  to  hear  ? 


A   TEMPLE  OF  SOLOMON 

"AND  even  your  police  are  more  sympa 
thetic  than  ours.  Last  night  I  was  getting 
home  about  a  square  at  a  time — I  and  one  of 
the  other  boys — and  the  gendarme  was  polite 
all  the  way.  '  Gentlemen,  I  must  rouse  you 
again.  A  thousand  pardons  !  I  beg  you  won't 
let  me  find  you  on  this  door-step  when  I  re 
turn.'  And  then  he'd  find  us  on  another  a 
block  along,  and  do  the  whole  thing  all  over 
again.  We  had  just  a  little  way  to  go,  if  it 
did  take  us  half  the  night,  so  it  was  all  on  his 
beat.  I  suppose  they  have  beats  something  like 
ours,  don't  they  ?" 

The  listener,  a  man  much  older  than  his 
companion,  looked  up  and  nodded  slightly. 

"All  worlds  are  alike,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"Indeed  they  are  not !  Not  like  our  world. 
Why,  I  can't  fancy  myself  sitting  with  a  met 
aphorical  wet  towel  around  my  head  and  sodas 
at  my  elbow,  talking  of  the  night  before  to  a 
man  of  your  age  and  standing,  sir,  on  our  side 
228 


A    TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

of  the  water.  Yet  I  know  I  can  with  you.  You 
are  all  more  men  of  the  world  here.  You  don't 
make  me  feel  that  you  are  shocked  now." 

"  No,  Mr.  Delano,"  said  the  older  man,  good- 
naturedly,  and  nodding  his  head  again ;  "  I  don't 
think  I  can  call  myself  shocked." 

He  was  looking  at  the  boyish  figure  lounging 
with  a  somewhat  ostentatious  air  of  fatigue  in 
the  easy-chair.  If  a  gleam  of  amusement  lurk 
ed  in  his  eyes,  it  was  hidden  in  their  depths. 
He  spoke  English  accurately  and  easily,  but 
with  a  marked  accent  and  slow  enunciation, 
and  his  manner  to  his  young  companion  was 
almost  deferential  in  its  exquisite  courtesy. 
The  boy  expanded  under  the  benign  influence 
like  a  flower  in  the  sun,  turning  out  the  inner 
most  petals. 

"  I  like  it  here,"  young  Delano  went  on,  warm 
ly,  and  with  a  not  unpleasing  egotism.  "  It's 
horribly  expensive — all  my  money-orders  are 
just  round-trip  tickets,  right  in  and  out  again ; 
but  I  like  your  methods  of  life,  I  like  your 
ways." 

"  And  our  sympathy  with  a  gentleman  that 
night  and  the  next  morning  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  most  of  you  have  had  next 
mornings  yourselves,"  said  the  youth,  naively. 

He  flushed  and  looked  up  hastily  as  his  com- 
229 


A    TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

panion  suddenly  laughed  aloud.  "  I  believe  all 
Americans  think  that  of  us.  How  is  the  work 

going?  And  how  do  you  find  B treats 

you?" 

"  Horribly,"  laughed  the  boy.  He  leaned 
forward  and  spoke  eagerly,  rapidly,  almost 
childishly,  quite  forgetting  his  earlier  assump 
tion  of  the  blase".  His  voice  was  charmingly 
boyish  and  merry. 

"Why,  do  you  know,  he  simply  laid  me  out 
the  first  day.  I'd  been  taught  to  draw  in  my 
work  with  my  brush — no  outlines — and  that's 
what  he  found  on  my  easel.  It  was  a  messy- 
looking  thing.  I  didn't  know  as  much  as  I 
know  now,  so  I  waited  by  my  work  to  see  what 
he'd  say.  He  didn't  say  anything  for  some 
time,  and  then — goodness  !  I  don't  like  to  re 
member  it  even  now  !  '  Humph  !  Starting  a 
new  school,  M.  Delano  ?'  Said  that  so  the 
whole  room  heard  him  !  I  nearly  died.  '  You 
can  take  a  crayon  and  draw,  draw,  draw  from 
the  model  each  day.'  I  was  fighting  mad,  but 
there  was  no  one  to  fight." 

The  elder  man  laughed  heartily. 

"Just  like  him.     He  was  like  that  in  my  day. 

I  remember  my  first  encounter  with  him.     I 

was  unwise,  like  you.     I  stupidly  waited  for 

his  first  comments.     He  paused  so  long  at  my 

230 


A    TEMPLE    OF   SOLOMON 

easel  that  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  asked  him, 
trembling,  '  What's  wrong,  monsieur  ?'  He 
waved  his  hand  around  like  this,  utterly  de 
spairing.  '  I  don't  know.  I  give  it  up !'  And 
those  were  my  first  words  from  him.  Our  pro 
fession  has  its  rubs,  comrade." 

Young  Delano  flushed  gratefully,  but  with  a 
nice  sense  of  shame. 

"  I  almost  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  in 
that  way,  sir,"  he  burst  out.  "When  you  speak 
with  that  kind  of  manner  of  equality  I  feel  as 
small  as  a  pin.  You  are  so  immeasurably  above 
me — I  mean,  above  anything  I  might  ever  hope 
to  be.  I  mean — it  makes  me  blush  and  stam 
mer  like  this  to  think  of  any  presumption  of 
comradeship  with  you,  Monsieur  R 

The  name  he  spoke  was  that  of  an  artist  in 
whose  work  nations  delighted.  Despite  his 
boyish  enthusiasm  of  protests,  the  young  host 
did  not,  and  could  not,  fully  realize  the  honor 
done  him  in  the  mere  presence  in  his  room  of 
this  genius.  A  formal  card  of  introduction 
given  to  Delano  by  his  father  had  presented 

him  to  Monsieur  R ,  and  this  was  not,  it 

seemed  to  him,  reason  sufficient  to  account  for 
occasional  visits  and  unobtrusive  but  unwa 
vering  kindness  from  so  great  a  source.  In 
his  heart  he  decided  that  some  quality  in  his 
231 


A    TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

own  work  had  caught  these  critical  eyes.  If, 
then,  with  so  little  effort  he  had  interested  this 
critic,  what  might  he  not  do  when  he  put  forth 
his  powers?  He  meant  to  get  down  to  work 
in  earnest  so  soon  as  he  had  seen  a  little  more 
of  life — a  little  more  of  this  enchanting  capital 
of  high  art  and  light  living.  At  his  guest's  re 
quest  he  drew  out,  with  no  hesitation,  what 
ever  work  he  had  finished,  and  listened  re 
spectfully,  as  he  always  listened,  to  the  gentle, 
subtle,  but  praiseless  criticisms. 

"  I  can  never  tell  you  how  kind  I  think  this 
is  of  you,"  Delano  said,  easily;  "but  of  course 
you  must  have  known,  without  my  telling  you, 
how  your  interest  in  my  art  encourages  me." 

Monsieur  R looked  up  serenely  from  the 

sketch  he  held  in  his  hand.  "  My  dear  boy," 
he  said,  emotionlessly,  "your  art  doesn't  inter 
est  me.  It  would  be  wrong  for  me  to  let  you 
think  that.  You  interest  me  immensely,  your 
art  not  at  all." 

The  words  were  so  courteously,  so  gently 
said  that  their  great  importance  seemed  de 
nied  by  the  manner  of  their  utterance ;  yet 
Delano  stood  gasping  as  if  ice-water  had  been 
cruelly  flung  in  his  smiling  face.  Monsieur 
R glanced  up  again  at  him  and  rose  im 
mediately. 

232 


A    TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

"  You  must  pardon  me,"  he  said,  regretfully. 
"  I  did  not  realize.  Is  art,  then,  so  dear  to  you  ?" 

Delano  hated  the  weakness  in  his  throat  that 
made  his  voice  come  huskily.  "  If  I  didn't  love 
art,  why  am  I  here?" 

The  artist  shook  his  head  with  a  mournful 
half -smile  and  slight  shrug.  "All  who  are 
here  do  not  love  art." 

Delano  walked  quickly  past  him  to  the  table, 
and  laid  his  hand  unsteadily  on  the  sketches 
he  had  spread  out  there.  "  You  said  just  now 
it  would  be  wrong  for  you  to  let  me  think  you 
found  interest  in  my  work,"  he  said,  proudly. 
"As  I  have  been  thinking  just  that,  will  you 
tell  me  why  you  have  chosen  to  be  kind  to 
me?" 

The  older  man  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  at 
the  boy  whose  self-respect  he  had  wounded 
with  a  long,  slow  gaze,  neither  too  searching 
nor  too  slighting. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  simply.  "  I  am  sorry 
I  spoke  so  brutally,  but  you  will  find  that  every 
Gaul  ceases  to  possess  that  civility  you  say  you 
admire  the  moment  art  is  in  question.  Let  me 
say  one  more  word  of  your  work,  as  I  have  said 
thus  much.  There  is  nothing  here  for  me  to 
talk  of  seriously." 

He  laid  his  long,  slim  hand  on  the  pictures, 
233 


A  TEMPLE   OF   SOLOMON 

and,  his  courtly  gentleness  thrown  abruptly 
aside,  spoke  with  a  fire  and  power  the  boy  had 
never  seen  in  him  before.  "  These  are  very 
fair,  all  good  enough.  Some  have  a  certain 
power  in  them  ;  all  have  some  promise,  all 
are  clever,  but  you  didn't  paint  these.  Your 
head  and  your  hands  did  ;  but  how  small  a 
part  of  a  man  are  his  head  and  hands !  Art, 
believe  me,  art  is  a  vampire — no  less.  Its  very 
existence  demands  life-blood,  heart-blood.  I 
can  only  tell  you  that  there  is  no  trace,  not  a 
trace,  of  such  carmine  in  any  of  all  this  work. 
Whether  it  suffers  by  your  fault  or  your  mis 
fortune  is  for  you  to  decide.  You,  and  you 
alone,  can  know  what  you  have  suffered  in  the 
effort  to  put  yourself  in  your  work.  But  this 
is  enough.  Pardon  me.  I  don't  come  here  to 
preach  platitudes  to  you.  I  came  to  be  amus 
ing.  That  question  you  last  asked  lets  me  be 
somewhat  amusing,  perhaps.  You  asked  why 
I  am  interested  in  you.  This  room  has  some 
thing  to  do  with  that  interest.  It  was  once 
occupied  by  a  man  with  a  story.  And,  by-the- 
way,  did  you  know  that  your  father,  too,  lived 
in  this  room  when  he  was  in  Paris  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it,"  said  Delano,  briefly.     His 
voice  came  from  close  behind  his  teeth.     He 
was  striving  with  himself  to  reply  at  all.  "  Per- 
234 


A   TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

haps,"  he  exclaimed,  bitterly,  "I  am  only  a  dab 
bler  by  birthright.  I  know  I  haven't  worked  ; 
but  why  should  I  ?  What  inheritance  of  real 
art  and  of  tradition  have  I  ?  We  are  a  family 
of  shopkeepers.  I  belong  behind  the  counter, 
too,  I  suppose.  I  don't  know  where  we  got 
this  infernal  twist  in  our  minds  that  sends  us 
to  Paris  to  make  fools  of  ourselves — father  and 
son.  My  father  failed  miserably  over  here,  as 
you  know,  I  suppose.  He  never  speaks  of  it  at 
home.  And  now  here  am  I." 

"  Your  father,"  said  Monsieur  R ,  inter 
rupting  gently,  "  never  made  a  fool  of  himself 
for  a  moment.  When  he  found  out  that  his 
path  in  life  was  not  to  be  art,  he  went  home 
quietly  and  soberly.  He  was  in  some  of  the 
same  classes  that  I  was  in,  and  I  have  never 
known  any  man,  before  or  since,  whom  I  re 
spected  so  thoroughly,  except,  perhaps,  the 
occupant  of  this  same  room  whose  story  I 
wanted  to  tell  you.  Would  you  care  to  hear  it?" 

Delano  stood  dejectedly  by  the  table,  gazing 
at  his  canvases.  His  dark,  full  eyes,  sensitive 
as  a  young  girl's,  were  clouded  and  wet,  but  he 
looked  up  frankly.  "It's  all  over  now,"  he  said, 
manfully.  "  I  didn't  take  that  criticism  well, 
but  it  was  unexpected  to  me.  I'm  used  to  Mon 
sieur  B 's  scoldings ;  I  expect  them.  This 

235 


A   TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

was  different.  It's  knocked  the  nonsense  out  of 
me.  I  ought  to  have  felt  for  myself  all  of  what 
you  said,  and  if  there  were  any  real  artist  blood 
in  me  I  would  have  felt  it.  I  don't  belong  in 
this  life  any  more  than  my  father  did.  I  shall 
go  home,  too — after  I  break  my  brushes.  If  I 
can't  use  them,  no  one  else  shall.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  give  them  a  last  washing  while  you 
tell  me  your  story?  I'd  like  them  to  go  to 
their  death  in  decent  order." 

The  elder  man  made  no  attempt  to  dissuade 
him  or  change  his  resolution.  He  began  his 
story  quietly,  with  his  hands  laid  loosely  on 
the  table,  while  the  boy  sadly  scrubbed  his 
brushes  round  and  round  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand,  cleaning  them  after  the  not  very  tidy 
manner  of  art  students. 

"  Some  time  ago,"  said  Monsieur  R ,  "  a 

young  American  of  about  your  age  and  cir 
cumstances  came  into  our  art  classes,  and,  as 
I  told  you,  took  this  same  room  that  you  and 
your  father  have  had.  He,  like  you  both,  was 
of  a  commercial  people,  but  the  most  hopeful 
creature,  the  most  confident  in  his  own  success. 
He  had  a  love  for  art,  a  passion  for  art,  that 
I  envy  him  to  this  day.  I  have  never  seen  any 
human  love  like  it.  I  used  to  come  to  see  him 
here  constantly,  and  I  never  left  him  without 
236 


A    TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

having  learned  something  of  him  that  no  school 
of  art  could  teach.  He  worked  early,  he  worked 
late.  I  think  he  would  have  liked  to  paint  with 
his  feet  when  his  hands  were  too  tired  to  hold 
the  brush,  and  for  nature's  beauties  he  had  a 
soul  like  an  octagon,  with  a  wide-open  door  at 
each  corner.  Go  to  the  window  there  a  mo 
ment,  and  tell  me  what  you  see." 

Delano,  with  a  subdued  manner  cf  childlike 
obedience,  dropped  the  work  on  his  brushes  and 
went  to  the  window,  where  he  looked  out. 

"  I  can't  see  anything  but  roofs  and  chim 
neys  and  a  gray  sky,"  he  said. 

Monsieur  R rose  and  joined  him.  "And 

I,"  he  said — "  I  see,  first,  a  lovely  pattern  on 
that  fagade  of  the  house-roof.  The  snow  has 
fallen,  filling  up  all  the  crevices  of  the  stone  ; 
only  the  raised  brown  carving  stands  above 
the  soft  white  background.  Over  there,  I  see 
a  gray  cloud  of  hovering  smoke  shaped  like  a 
giant  mushroom  above  a  chimney.  The  air 
is  too  heavy  to  spread  it  farther.  Why  didn't 
you  see  those  things?  But  I  never  did  until 
I  was  taught  to  see  them  by  my  brother  art 
student.  There  were  in  every  scene  some  hid 
den  charms  that  were  lost  to  me  until  I  saw 
it  with  him,  and  then  they  were  no  longer  hid 
den.  What  training  my  eyes  have  had,  what 
237 


A   TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

success  is  mine,  is  in  a  great  degree  due  to  the 
hours  I  have  spent  in  this  room.  Do  you  won 
der  that  I  feel  a  pleasure  in  seeing  these  walls 
about  me  again  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Delano,  slowly.  He  came  back 
to  his  brush-washing.  Inch  by  inch  it  seemed 
to  him  the  artist  was  thrusting  him  from  him. 
For  all  reasons  except  for  Delano's  sake  he 

had  visited  this  room.  Monsieur  R went 

on  with  his  story,  leaning  now  against  the 
window-frame  and  looking  out  on  the  snowy 
roofs. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  there  came  a  day — a  day 
that  was  terrible.  For  weeks  I  had  feared  what 
came  then.  I  went  to  the  oculist  with  him, 
and  I  led  him  home.  He  walked  like  a  drunken 
man  and  flung  himself  on  that  very  bed  where 
you  lie  every  night  of  your  thoughtless  life. 
Just  there  a  strong  man's  ambition  died  hard ; 
an  absorbing  passion  burned  out  in  a  live  body; 
a  heart  broke.  I  sat  where  you  are  sitting, 
and  I  suffered  it  all  as  he  suffered.  It  was  the 
purest  of  ambitions.  He  had  no  need  of  money, 
no  need  to  rise  in  the  world,  because  he  was 
contented  where  he  was  born.  It  was  the  rare 
and  pure  ambition  of  a  noble  genius,  and  those 
poor  little  doors  at  which  it  was  creeping  out 
into  our  world  were  slowly  and  cruelly  closing 
238 


A    TEMPLE    OF   SOLOMON 

it  in  forever.  He  would  see  well  enough  to 
lead  an  ordinary  life — no  more.  I  sat  there 
and  watched  him  for  an  hour.  He  was  to  have 
no  pain  to  suffer.  He  was  not  suffering  pain 
then,  but  it  was  an  hour's  death-agony  I  wit 
nessed.  Then  he  got  up  from  the  bed  and 
walked  steadily  to  that  desk  over  there,  and  I 
knew  it  was  to  write  the  home  letter.  He  had 
taken  up  the  new  life,  and  this  was  its  first 
work.  He  picked  up  a  letter  which  he  found 
lying  on  the  desk,  addressed  to  him,  and  opened 
it  with  evident  bewilderment.  It  had  neither 
stamp  nor  postmark.  I  had  laid  it  there  when 
we  first  came  into  the  room.  Presently  he 
came  to  me  and  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
'  Read  this,'  he  said,  clearly,  and  there  was  a 
triumph  in  his  voice  that  for  me  rings  in  this 
room  yet.  I  read  the  letter,  and  I  begged  for 
it  to  keep  as  a  talisman.  I  needed  it  more  than 
he  ;  his  life  was  planned  for  him,  mine  was  all 
to  live.  This  has  helped  me  through  the  rains  ; 
it  has  helped  me  in  the  sunshines  of  my  life. 
It  has  made  me  more  an  artist,  more  a  man, 
than  I  could  ever  have  been  without  it.  I  read 
it  myself  constantly,  and,  as  you  see  by  its 
worn  edges  I  always  carry  it ;  and  now  I  am 
going  to  read  it  to  you.  It  begins,  '  My  dear 
Son,'  and  it  is  signed,  'Your  Father': 
239 


A   TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

"  MY  DEAR  SON, — Your  friend,  Monsieur  R ,  has 

some  weeks  ago  written  to  me  that  he  feared  your 
eyesight  was  in  danger,  though  you  did  not  suspect 
it,  and  he  kindly  begged  me  to  prepare  myself  for  the 
worst,  and  also  to  spare  you  the  pain  of  writing  this 
news  to  me.  I  therefore  send  you  this  letter  by  him, 
and  when  you  receive  it  you  will  know  that  you  have 
nothing  to  tell  me.  I  am  not  quite  sure  how  this 
trouble  will  find  you,  but  if  you  are  without  consola 
tion  you  must  remember  that  it's  all  in  a  lifetime,  and 
life  is  not  long.  But  somehow  I  turn  to  the  thought 
that  you  will  not  let  this  crush  you.  I  want  you  the 
same  boy  that  I  never  understood,  but  that  I  have 
loved — as  his  father  loved  Benjamin — more  than  all 
my  other  boys.  You  were  never  under  my  hand  as 
the  others  were.  When  I  thought  I  had  you,  it  was 
like  catching  a  bird  under  my  fingers — a  leg  out,  a 
wing  out,  a  head  out — you  were  gone.  You  escaped 
me  in  spirit  always,  and  I  want  you  to  do  so  still. 
Some  must  be  the  foundation-stones  and  some  the 
spires.  We  can't  all  shoot  upward.  Whenever  I  saw 
you  fail  and  set  your  teeth  and  drudge  until  you  got 
the  idea  you  worked  for,  I  used  to  say  to  myself, 
"That's  his  daddy."  I  couldn't  paint.no  indeed,  but 
I  knew  I  was  the  old  foundation-stone  that  had 
given  you  the  power  to  drudge  and  drudge,  and  so 
to  climb,  and  you  could  never  shoot  up  very  far 
without  that  as  a  foothold  under  you.  It  was  a  great 
joy  for  me  to  feel  this — a  great  joy — and  yours  will  be 
a  doubled  joy  if  you  can  look  at  your  son's  work  and 
240 


A    TEMPLE    OF    SOLOMON 

say,  "  I  was  the  stone  that  lifted  him  up  far  higher 
than  my  father  lifted  me,  for  I  gave  him  both  genius 
and  the  power  to  drudge." 

"'  Come  home,  my  boy,  and  drudge  and  dream,  and 
dream  and  drudge,  and  make  all  you  can  of  what  you 
have  left  to  you,  and  then  pass  it  on.  We  shall  live, 
or  you  will,  to  send  out  a  third  generation,  with  all 
our  best  powers  stored  in  him.  You  and  I  must  be 
like  the  pieces  of  the  temple  of  Solomon  when  it  lay 
all  apart  and  separate,  only  waiting  to  be  put  together. 
When  we  are  united  in  your  son,  it  shall  be  a  fair  tem 
ple  of  high  spires,  please  God.  He  shall  have  the 
power  to  dream  such  dreams  as  you  have  dreamed, 
and  to  work  as  /  have  worked.  Come  home  ;  the  old 
beehive  is  big  enough  to  keep  us  both  busy,  and,  my 
boy — will  it  hurt  you  for  me  to  say  this? — your  work 
isn't  needed  of  the  world.  It  is  God's  work  to  paint 
as  you  paint,  but  God  will  take  care  of  his  own  work, 
and  it  is  not  for  you  to  worry  that  you  are  not  looking 
after  it.  Come  home  and  look  after  me.  I  am  grow 
ing  old.  Marry,  and  give  me  a  grandson,  and  we 
shall  yet  be  famous.  Take  courage,  if  you  have  ever 
lost  courage ;  but  the  man  who  believes  you  have 
not  is  YOUR  FATHER.'  " 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Delano  had  ceased 
washing  his  brushes.  He  was  listening  in 
tently. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  the  letter?"  asked 

Monsieur  R .  He  laid  it  on  the  table  be- 

Q  241 


A   TEMPLE   OF    SOLOMON 

fore  the  boy  and  turned  away  again  to  the 
window. 

As  Delano  glanced  down  at  the  writing, 
he  started;  then,  turning  the  pages  quickly, 
looked  for  a  moment  incredulously  at  the 
printed  heading.  He  laid  the  letter  down 
on  the  table,  and,  rising  suddenly,  set  his  hand 
on  it.  palm  down,  with  a  gesture  as  of  a  man 
.planting  his  foot  firmly  on  the  lowest  rung  of 
life's  ladder. 

"Why  didn't  you — why  didn't  they  tell  me 
this  before  ?"  he  cried,  angrily.  "  What  a  fool — 
what  a  fool  I  have  been  !" 

Monsieur  R looked  at  the  flushed  face 

keenly.  "  You  were  not  ready  before,"  he  said, 
gently ;  "but  now — yes,  you  are  the  son  of  your 
father  and  grandfather,  and  they  '  shall  yet  be 
famous." " 


THIS    MORTAL   COIL 

LONG  ago,  in  aeons  past,  Nature,  kneading  an 
iron  shore  to  suit  her  mood,  twisted  off  a  great 
careless  lump  of  red  rock  and  flung  it  into  the 
ocean  ;  then,  as  if  by  an  after-thought,  she  tied 
it  to  dry  land  with  a  rope  of  knotted  bowlders. 
Thus  created,  Brace's  Rock  has  stood  for  cen 
turies  in  the  blue  waters,  naked  at  first,  but 
slowly  clothing  itself  with  a  spare  growth  of 
golden-rod  in  its  crevices,  some  stunted  bay- 
bushes,  and  starved  feathery  grass. 

There  the  gaunt  rock  stood  on  a  certain 
September  afternoon,  the  sweeping  sea-line 
spread  out  before  its  face,  while  at  its  back,  in 
a  pond-like  shelter,  gathered  hundreds  of  sea 
gulls,  looking  like  pads  of  white  pond -lilies 
on  the  still  cove's  waters,  or,  yet  more  lovely, 
flaunting  and  fluttering  their  white  wings  as, 
perched  on  the  little  brown  rock  islands,  they 
fought  the  waves  of  the  rising  tide,  white- 
tipped  as  they.  In  all  Septembers  this  shore 
revels  in  colors  that  shade  back  from  the  gray 
243 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

sand-beach  and  the  spring  green  of  the  sand- 
grass  to  moors  warm  and  rich  with  color  that 
seems  to  fairly  dash  up  the  sides  of  the  gray- 
peaked  inland  rocks,  splashing  high  among 
them  red-leaved  bushes  and  mats  of  glowing 
brown  or  purple  pink  grasses. 

Lawrence  Goodhue,  on  this  September  day, 
sat  on  the  topmost  ledge  of  Brace's  Rock,  his 
elbow  on  his  knee,  his  chin  in  his  hand,  his 
artist  eyes  garnering  the  scene  into  the  store 
house  of  his  brain,  and  so  absorbed  was  he 
in  details  of  color  that  when  at  last  his  gaze 
dropped  to  a  spot  not  ten  feet  from  him  he  sat 
staring  at  it  with  a  sense  of  confusion.  What 
he  saw  was  an  artist's  paint-rag,  still  wet  and 
fresh  with  all  the  shaded  colors  of  the  land 
scape,  but  for  the  moment  it  was  to  him  al 
most  as  if  his  vision  had  collected  the  wide 
spread  colors,  as  a  prism  might,  and  thrown 
them  together  on  the  rock. 

Sending  his  eyes  wandering  again  in  search  of 
the  fellow-artist  who  must  have  preceded  him, 
Goodhue  finally  discovered  a  figure  climbing 
among  the  rocks  below.  It  was  plainly  a  woman, 
though  as  he  peered  down  at  her  a  large,  mush 
room-like  hat  concealed  from  him  everything 
but  a  white  skirt  and  an  identifying  artist's 
equipment  hangingfrom  the  climber's  shoulder. 
244 


THIS   MORTAL   COIL 

Not  an  hour  before,  Goodhue  had  been  over 
every  inch  of  that  lower  ground,  and  he  now 
watched  the  progress  of  another  with  peculiar 
interest.  At  what  he  felt  to  be  the  risk  of  life 
and  limb,  he  had  crawled  down  not  only  to  the 
base  of  the  rock  itself,  but  under  a  jutting 
bowlder  overhanging  the  water,  and  there  dis 
covered  a  veritable  jewel-casket.  The  waters, 
lapping  in  and  out  twice  daily  between  the 
crevices,  had  formed  somehow  a  great  oblong 
basin,  and  this  the  sea  had  filled  with  its  own 
wonders.  It  had  first  draped  the  gray  sides 
with  long,  weeping  sea- weeds,  or  crusted  them 
with  tawny  barnacles  and  black  mussels  dashed 
with  silver.  There  spongy  anemones  of  every 
soft  tint  stretched  down  thirsty  necks,  while 
the  floor  below  was  a  rich  mosaic  formed  of 
multi-colored  snails,  with  here  a  blazing  orange 
starfish,  there  another  of  pink  or  royal  purple. 
The  approach  to  this  treasure-house  lay  down 
a  sharp  descent,  slippery  with  wet  weeds  and 
black  with  barnacles,  and  it  was  a  recollection 
of  the  difficulties  of  the  climb,  not  unwilling 
ness  to  see  another  share  his  discovery,  that 
brought  Goodhue  to  his  feet  and  made  him 
look  down  anxiously  as  the  stranger  artist 
paused  above  the  overhanging  rock.  He  real 
ized  that  she  too  had  found  some  evidence  of 
245 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

what  lay  below  as  he  watched  her  hesitate, 
test  with  her  foot  the  slippery  weed  on  the 
rocks,  then  draw  back,  only  to  repeat  the  at 
tempt  at  another  point.  Foiled,  apparently, 
by  the  real  dangers  of  the  descent,  she  seat 
ed  herself  at  last  on  an  overhanging  rock,  as 
Goodhue  thought  wisely  giving  up  the  at 
tempt.  He  fancied  that  a  sketch  of  the  pool 
was  to  be  the  next  move  in  order,  as  he  saw 
the  girl  take  what  looked  like  a  sketch-book 
from  her  side,  but  by  a  deliberate  movement 
she  poised  the  book  with  careful  aim  and  flung 
it  swiftly  down  under  the  rock  ;  then,  with 
only  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  rose,  plunged 
after  it,  and  was  lost  to  Goodhue's  astonished 
sight.  Although  he  had  found  the  descent 
difficult  as  well  as  dangerous,  he  remembered 
that  both  difficulty  and  danger  had  been 
doubled  in  the  return,  and  deciding,  therefore, 
that  he  should  at  least  be  near  at  hand  in  the 
event  of  accident,  he  made  his  way  quickly 
down  the  side  of  the  rock,  and,  reaching  the 
top  of  the  overhanging  spur,  waited  there  pa 
tiently.  It  amused  him,  unseen  and  unsus 
pected  as  he  knew  he  was,  and  knowing  as  he 
did  every  beauty  that  lay  in  that  hidden  aqua 
rium  of  nature,  to  hear  now  and  then  half- 
uttered  exclamations  of  delight  coming  from 
246 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

beneath  the  rock.  It  was  long,  and  he  did  not 
wonder  at  the  delay,  before  the  sound  of  a 
foot  cautiously  scraping  its  way  warned  him 
that  the  reckless  adventurer,  having  satisfied 
her  artistic  curiosity,  had  finally  begun  her 
ascent.  He  moved  softly  nearer  to  the  jagged 
edge,  and  a  moment  later  saw  a  woman's  un 
gloved  hand  groping  helplessly  in  air  ;  but  be 
fore  Goodhue  had  decided  whether  he  should 
or  should  not  grasp  it,  the  hand  was  clinging  to 
a  blunt  projection,  where  the  companion  hand 
soon  followed,  creeping  about  the  other  side  of 
the  blunt  spur.  Small  and  white  as  they  were, 
the  hands  seemed  supple  and  the  wrists  so 
strong  that  Goodhue  waited  to  discover  what 
plan  their  owner  had  for  them  before  he  inter 
fered.  Stooping  down  and  crawling  to  the 
rock's  edge,  he  looked  cautiously  over  to  see 
that  the  climber  was  standing  on  the  narrowest 
of  ledges,  with  her  body  thrown  back  to  gain 
the  impetus  which  was  to  swing  her  about  the 
rough  corner,  using  the  spur  as  a  pivot,  her 
arms  as  ropes  to  drag  her  up  to  the  top  of  the 
rock.  There  was  no  time  for  further  hesita 
tion.  Goodhue  grasped  the  girl's  wrists,  at  the 
same  time  crying  out  a  warning. 

"  Don't  jump  !     It  is  dangerous.     Have  you 
kept  your  footing  ?" 

247 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

"  Yes,"  answered  a  voice  from  below. 

He  braced  himself  against  the  rock.  "  Then 
swing  free  now  and  I'll  pull  you  up.  Slowly ! 
Slowly !"  He  felt  the  muscles  of  her  wrists  relax 
as  her  hands  loosened  on  the  spur  and  the  weight 
of  her  body  hung  on  his  arms.  In  another  mo 
ment  he  knew  she  must  have  gained  some  new 
footing,  for  the  strain  on  his  hands  lifted  in 
part,  and  the  next  instant  the  mushroom  hat 
was  rising  over  the  rock's  edge,  disclosing  to  his 
interested  eyes,  first  a  cloud  of  dark  hair,  next 
the  white  brow  it  surrounded,  and  then  his 
eyes  met  those  heavy-lashed  blue  eyes  unlike 
any  others  he  had  ever  known.  Had  the  over 
hanging  rock  on  which  he  knelt  dropped  into 
the  pool  beneath,  it  seemed  to  Goodhue  that 
the  crash  could  not  have  been  more  actual  than 
was  this  meeting  eye  to  eye.  A  moment,  still 
poised  as  they  were,  both  were  held  motionless, 
then,  with  a  word  of  inarticulate  exclamation, 
Goodhue  dragged  the  girl's  limp  body  up  the 
face  of  the  rock  to  the  spot  where  he  stood. 
With  solid  ground  beneath  her  feet,  her  first 
motion  was  to  stagger  from  Goodhue's  support 
and  lean  weakly  against  the  stone  wall  which 
rose  high  above  them.  But  if  her  body  was 
weak  her  fixed  eyes  could  still  ask  the  ques 
tion  her  lips  were  unable  to  demand,  and  with 
248 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

an  effort  Goodhue  answered  her  exactly  as  if 
she  had  spoken. 

"  Hester,  on  my  honor,  I  did  not  know  it  was 
you !  Your  hat  hid  your  face.  I  came  to  help 
you  only  as  any  man  would  go  to  any  woman 
in  danger." 

Hester  drew  her  trembling  figure  together 
against  the  rough  rock  to  which  she  seemed  to 
cling.  Though  she  spoke,  it  was  as  if  the  wind 
caught  her  voice,  blowing  it  from  her  lips,  it 
came  so  faintly,  so  unnaturally. 

"  Not — not  this  man  to  this  woman  !" 

"  No,"  he  replied,  sadly,  "  you  are  right.  We 
should  never  have  met  again  ;  but  indeed  if 
one  of  these  waves  had  caught  us  off  the  land 
somewhere  and  flung  us  together  on  this  rock, 
our  meeting  could  not  have  been  more  acci 
dental." 

"  I  believe  you,  and  if  I  had  had  a  moment  of 
preparation" — she  looked  up  at  him,  fully  and 
proudly  meeting  his  eyes — "  I  could  have  met 
you  as  any  woman  might  meet  any  man." 

As  she  ended  she  bent  her  head  slightly  and, 
crossing  the  small  rocky  platform,  quickly  dis 
appeared  behind  the  first  jutting  rock.  Before 
he  realized  that  she  was  going,  Goodhue  found 
himself  alone,  but  the  little  sketch-book,  which 
he  had  seen  her  fling  under  the  rock,  lay  where 
249 


THIS    MORTAL   COIL 

she  had  dropped  it,  forgotten,  at  his  feet.  Good- 
hue  stooped  and  lifted  the  book.  He  hesitated 
a  moment  with  it  in  his  hand,  then  passed  round 
the  rock  where  Hester  had  vanished.  As  she 
heard  his  quick  step  she  turned  instantly  with 
a  look  as  if  at  bay,  resolute,  yet  needing  all  her 
resolution.  Goodhue  at  once  held  out  the  book 
towards  her,  advancing  no  farther  than  it  was 
needful  to  do  so. 

"  I  doubted  whether  I  ought  to  follow  you 
with  it,"  he  said,  constrainedly.  "  I  saw  you 
fling  this  away — but  then  I  also  saw  you  risk 
your  life  to  recover  it.  I  did  not  know — " 

"  I  should  have  been  sorry  to  lose  it.  I  flung 
it  away  only  because  I  was  afraid  to  climb 
down  under  the  rock ;  but  I  knew  I  should  have 
to  go  down  after  the  book  was  there.  Thank 
you  for  bringing  it  to  me.  I  should  have 
thanked  you  also  for  your  assistance,  and  I  do 
now." 

If  they  had  never  met  before,  her  manner 
would  have  been  perfect,  keeping  him  at  his 
distance,  sufficiently  grateful  and  explanatory 
and  very  simple ;  yet  had  they  never  met  there 
could  not  have  been  in  her  eyes  the  veiled  con 
tempt  he  too  plainly  read  there.  As  she  ended 
it  was  as  if  she  dismissed  him,  but  though  she 
held  out  her  hand  for  the  book,  Goodhue  did 
250 


THIS    MORTAL   COIL 

not  give  it  to  her.  He  was  standing  motion 
less,  looking  in  her  face  so  closely  that  despite 
her  self-control  her  color  rose  slowly  and  hotly. 
As  he  saw  it  mounting  to  her  throat,  her  cheek, 
her  brow,  he  spoke,  slowly  : 

"  Hester,  can't  you  forgive  me  ?" 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  reply,  then  an 
swered,  with  effort,  "  I  had  forgiven  you — until 
I  saw  you." 

"  I  understand.  I  am  going  now.  But  one 
word,  one  moment  first.  It  was,  believe  me,  for 
your  sake  more  than  for  my  own  that  I  acted 
as  I  did.  I  know  you  cannot  judge,  not  know 
ing  what  I  do." 

She  turned  to  him  suddenly,  hotly.  "  I  can 
know  that  I  am  profoundly  grateful  to  you 
for  what  you  saved  me  from.  I  know  now  it 
would  have  been  a  living  death  to  me.  You 
saved  me  from  that,  and  for  that  favor — but 
how  can  you  think  I  should  ever  wish  to  see 
your  face  again  ?" 

"I  do  not,"  he  answered,  gravely.  "I  am  go 
ing  now.  But  remember,  I  know  nothing,  I 
have  heard  not  a  word  since  we  parted — not 
even  that  I  spared  you  all  I  could.  I  told  your 
father  that  you  found  the  man  of  my- letters, 
the  man  you  had  promised  yourself  to,  not  at 
all  the  man  I  was.  Was  it  accepted  ?" 
251 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

"  If  it  gives  you  any  comfort,  it  was  accepted. 
You  generously  gave  me  the  honors  of  war  and 
I  accepted  them.  But  why  should  I  play  out 
the  part  with  you,  who  know  those  honors  were 
thrust  upon  me !" 

Goodhue  stood  with  bowed  head,  repudiating 
nothing.  He  half  turned  away,  then  looked  back. 
"  Before  I  go,"  he  said,  simply,  "  you  need  not 
prepare  for  what  I  am  going  to  say.  It  seems 
very  prosaic  to  mention  this  at  all,  but  let  me 
warn  you,  as  I  crossed  the  causeway  from  the 
main-land  to  this  rock,  I  noticed  the  bowlders 
scattered  on  the  causeway  were  wave  worn. 
This,  with  some  other  signs,  made  me  sure  that 
at  high  tide,  whenever  that  may  be,  this  rock 
would  be  cut  off." 

"  Submerged  ?" 

"  Hardly,"  he  answered,  glancing  with  a  smile 
at  the  craggy  heights  above.  "  A  rise  of  tide 
that  submerged  this  rock  would  flood  all  the 
main-land  as  well,  but  the  causeway  is  much 
lower." 

Hester  glanced  back  at  the  water  behind 
them.  At  that  moment  a  wave,  stronger  than 
its  fellows,  swelled  up  and  broke  on  the  outer 
rocks,  rushing  over  their  serrated  tops  as 
though  so  many  gateways,  flooding  the  plat 
form  where  they  had  stood  a  few  moments  be- 
252 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

fore,  and  sobbing  up  almost  to  their  feet  in  a 
trough  of  dashing  spray  and  foam.  The  sea 
weed  clinging  to  the  rocks  was  no  longer  a  flat 
drapery,  the  waves  were  lifting  their  drooping 
heads  on  strong  crests  to  toss  and  tangle  them 
roughly. 

Hester  started  as  she  looked.     "  The  tide  is 
rising  !" 

"Yes,"  Goodhue  answered,  "it  has  been 
rising  for  some  time.  I  am  afraid  high  tide 
cannot  be  far  off.  It  would  really  be  wiser  to 
make  your  escape  good  at  once.  The  quickast 
way  is  up  over  the  centre  of  the  rock,  only  it  is 
very  steep.  If  you  would  let  me  help  you  "- 
he  hesitated,  but  Hester  hurriedly  took  the 
hand  he  had  half  offered,  and  breathlessly 
toiled  after  him  on  the  steep  ascent  which 
they  at  once  began.  In  many  places  Goodhue 
had  almost  to  drag  her  up  the  rock's  sheer  face, 
as  he  had  done  on  their  meeting  at  its  base. 
There  was  no  chance  for  speech  even  had  either 
desired  it.  Hester  climbed  with  a  feverish 
haste,  and  Goodhue,  yielding  to  her  mood,  hur 
ried  the  ascent  as  rapidly  as  he  dared.  Once, 
as  he  touched  her  arm  to  aid  her,  he  felt  that 
her  whole  body  was  trembling,  and  he  looked 
up  at  her  quickly. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?"  he  asked.     "  I  assure  you 
253 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

there's  no  possibility  of  danger.  Even  if  the 
tide  has  covered  the  causeway,  the  worst  that 
can  happen  will  be  a  short  imprisonment.  This 
rock  could  not  possibly  be  submerged." 

She  glanced  at  him  a  moment  and  then  turn 
ed  away  again,  pressing  forward  faster.  "  Per 
haps,"  she  said,  coldly,  "  I  might  prefer  submer 
sion." 

Goodhue  colored  and  drew  back.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon — "  he  began. 

But  at  that  moment  they  reached  the  sum 
mit,  which  gave  them  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
causeway,  last  seen  as  a  ridge  of  red  rock  strewn 
with  bowlders  and  bounded  on  either  side  by 
the  sea.  Now  between  them  and  dry  land  lay 
a  stretch  of  unquiet  waters  flecked  with  little 
wave-worn  islands,  some  as  close  together  as 
easy  stepping-stones  over  a  brook,  but  others 
more  dubiously  distant.  Even  as  they  looked 
the  rising  waves,  swimming  in  from  the  sea, 
were  swallowing  up  these  means  of  escape  as 
rapidly  as  fishes  devour  crumbs  of  bread. 

Goodhue  turned  to  look  at  his  companion. 
They  had  both  paused  abruptly. 

"  I  shall  attempt  it,"  Hester  said,  decidedly, 
in  answer  to  his  look,  and  at  once  began  the 
descent,  much  easier  on  this  side  than  the  as 
cent  on  the  other.  Goodhue  was  at  her  side 
254 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

when  she  reached  the  beach  that  lay  at  the  foot 
of  the  rock,  but  she  seemed  almost  unconscious 
of  his  presence.  As  she  stood  poised  lightly  on 
a  stone  at  the  water's  edge,  her  eager  blue  eyes 
on  the  farther  shore,  her  face  flushed,  her  lips 
set,  her  dark  hair  blown  back,  her  whole  figure 
as  a  type  of  motion,  but  for  the  moment  ar 
rested,  it  seemed  to  Goodhue  as  great  an  im 
pertinence  to  suggest  danger  to  her  as  it  would 
be  to  suggest  it  to  the  sea-gulls  fluttering  on 
the  outlying  rocks,  disputing  their  possession 
with  the  buffeting  waves  that  constantly  swept 
them  aside.  Yet,  when  she  lifted  her  foot  from 
the  first  rock  to  set  it  on  the  next,  he  quickly 
stepped  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm, 
half  speaking  his  thought : 

"  But  you  have  no  wings.     It  is  impossible." 

Her  impatient  movement  was  meant  to  sh?kr, 
off  his  detaining  hand.  "  There  is  nothing  to 
prevent  my  trying." 

His  hand  still  on  her  arm,  he  felt  the  forward 
spring  of  her  body,  and  again  deliberately  re 
sisted  it,  pushing  her  back.  Her  foot  dropped 
to  the  sand. 

"You  forget  me,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  must 
prevent  your  trying  it." 

"You  prevent  me  !"  she  asked,  incredulously. 
"You  mean  to  keep  me  here  by  force?" 
255 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

He  answered  her  urgently.  "You  surely  will 
not  make  me  do  that.  You  must  see  the 
danger.  Willing  as  I  am  to  help  you  escape,  I 
cannot,  you  cannot  measure  from  here  the  dis 
tances  of  those  bowlders  from  each  other,  nor 
the  depths  between  them.  You  might  be 
caught  midway,  with  retreat  or  advance  cut 
off  and  the  tide  still  rushing  in.  Then  any  fall 
for  you  among  those  sharp  stones  and  angry 
waters  could  have  but  one  end." 

"You  are  afraid." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  half  smile.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  "  I  am  afraid.  Did  you  think  you 
could  scourge  me  to  courage  ?" 

Her  eyes  lowered,  she  stood  silent  for  the 
moment,  then  suddenly,  with  hands  clasped, 
raised  her  eyes  in  entreaty.  "  I  implore  you 
to  let  me  try  it.  I  am  very  strong.  I  sha'n't  be 
hurt.  You  must  see  I  can't — I  can't  stand 
staying  here." 

"  I  do  see  that,  and  I  don't  mean  you  shall 
stay  here — with  me.  The  only  thing  I  do  beg 
of  you  is  not  to  attempt  the  passage  until  the 
way  is  quite  clear  again.  You  won't  be  im 
prisoned  very  long  at  worst." 

Goodhue  was  taking  off  his  coat  as  he  ended, 
and  Hester  stood  looking  at  him  in  silence,  her 
face  changing.  As  he  rolled  his  coat  into  a 
256 


THIS    MORTAL   COIL 

bundle  and  thrust  it  under  his  arm,  she  spoke 
coldly  and  abruptly: 

"You  called  the  passage  very  dangerous  just 
now.  If  that  is  true,  I  cannot  allow  you  to  at 
tempt  it.  If  anything  should  happen,  my  con 
science — " 

He  interrupted  her  quickly.  "  I  thank  your 
conscience — but  it  may  rest  easy.  I  am  a  strong 
swimmer.  In  any  case  I  go  solely  on  my  own 
responsibility."  A  bitterness  that  for  the  first 
time  spoke  in  his  voice  brought  the  color  to 
Hester's  face. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind,"  she  said,  still 
formally,  but  more  gently  than  she  had  yet 
spoken.  "  I  only  meant  that  I  could  not  let 
you  risk  your  life  to  spare  me  mere  discom 
fort." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  sadly.  "  I  understood 
you.  You  meant  what  you  said.  It  was  a  case 
of  conscience  only.  Good-bye,  I  don't  ask  you 
to  reply.  You  were  right.  We  should  never 
have  met,  and  now  we  must  part  as  quickly  as 
possible.  Good-bye." 

Before  she  could  speak  again,  had  she  wished 
to  do  so,  he  had  left  her  side,  and  was  leaping 
from  rock  to  rock  out  into  the  waters.  Hester 
turned  sharply  away  back  to  the  higher  sand 
of  the  beach.  There,  where  they  had  stood  in 
R  257 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

the  sand,  together  in  all  human  probability 
for  the  last  time,  she  saw  the  marks  of  Good- 
hue's  footsteps  and  her  own  distinctly  printed. 
The  ripples  that  left  the  rushing  waves  behind 
to  break  on  the  sand  in  wrinkles  soft  as  a  baby's 
frown  were  yet  strong  enough  to  be  wiping 
out  these  last  frail  memorials.  Hester's  brow 
contracted  as  she  looked,  but  she  moved  reso 
lutely  on  with  no  backward  glance,  until  a  lit 
tle  bird,  darting  with  a  sharp  chirp  from  some 
crevice,  flew  past  her,  almost  brushing  her  with 
its  wings  in  its  hurry  to  be  off.  Turning  in 
voluntarily  to  watch  its  dipping  flight,  her  eyes 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Goodhue's  figure  standing 
on  a  rock  far  out  in  the  yeasty  waters. 

Brace's  heights  rose  solidly  between  her  and 
the  inland  when  she  stopped  again  and  stood 
looking  out  at  the  distant  sea-line.  The  sun, 
now  almost  level  with  the  world,  was  behind 
the  rock,  and  cast  the  shadows  of  its  peaks  in 
longer  and  longer  reflections  at  her  feet.  The 
deserted  waste  of  waters  lay  cold  and  gray. 
Two  finger-like  light-houses  on  a  distant  island 
were  pointing  upward,  their  straight  lines  al 
ready  blurring  and  purpling  in  the  withdraw 
ing  light.  The  air  seemed  suddenly  cold,  and 
Hester  shivered  involuntarily.  As  if  seeking 
for  warmth,  she  nestled  down  in  one  of  the 
258 


THIS    MORTAL   COIL 

rock  crevices,  leaning  close  against  the  stone's 
rough  side  as  she  waited,  watching  the  waves 
that  came  dashing  in,  throwing  their  spray 
almost  to  her  feet.  The  roaring  of  the  waves 
was  so  monotonous  and  continuous  she  heard 
nothing,  until  at  last,  at  a  step  close  behind  her, 
she  turned  with  a  start  to  see  Goodhue. 

"You  have  not  gone?"  she  cried,  rising  and 
facing  him. 

"You  must  not  blame  me,"  he  answered. 
"  After  all,  it  proved  impossible." 

"The  tide  had  risen  too  high?" 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  replied,  with  grave 
significance:  "Yes,  the  tide  had  risen  too  high. 
I  might  play  with  words  and  still  say  that 
too  truly.  But  I  have  come  back  solely  be 
cause  I  love  you  and  because  I  must  tell 
you  so." 

She  stood  staring  at  him  bewildered,  and  he 
repeated  his  last  words. 

"  I  must  tell  you  so." 

"  No,"  she  cried,  rousing.  "  You  could  have 
left  me,  and  have  dared  to  come  back  for  this ! 
How  have  you  ventured  ?  Do  you  think  you 
can  once  fling  a  woman's  heart  away  and  ever 
come  back — " 

He  checked  her  with  an  earnest  gesture. 
"  Flung  away  !  And  you  have  thought  there 
259 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

was  no  better  reason  than  that  kind  of  faith 
lessness?  Then,  indeed,  you  must  hear  me." 

"  Never.     Never  again  !" 

"You  must.  In  justice  to  me,  first  you  must 
listen,  and,  further  —  as  you  yourself  decide. 
For  a  year  I  have  let  you  judge  me  unheard, 
because  I  could  not  speak.  Now  I  can,  and 
claim  a  hearing.  In  common  justice,  you  have 
no  right  to  refuse." 

"  I  do  refuse.  In  common  justice,  I  have 
some  claims.  I  did  love  you.  You  know  it. 
Why  should  I  deny  it  ?"  She  caught  her  breath 
for  the  moment,  but  went  on.  "  I  have  at  last 
reached  the  point  I  made  up  my  mind  I  would 
reach  the  day  we  parted.  I  don't  deny  it  was 
hard  at  first,  but  I  have  utterly  ceased  to  care. 
I  will  not  be  troubled  now.  I  have  the  right 
not  to  be." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  face,  flushed  and 
quivering,  but  decided — at  the  indignant  violet 
eyes  which  she  forced  herself  to  raise  to  his, 
and  at  the  curve  of  her  quivering  lips.  Then 
he  looked  away  from  her  again  out  over  the 
waters  about  them. 

"  We  are  as  if  in  a  world  quite  apart  for  the 

time,"  he  said,  at  last,  quaintly.    "  I  wish  we 

could    forget    for   these    few    moments    that 

there's   any  other   world  to   consider.     When 

260 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

our  souls  meet  in  another  world  they  will  per 
haps  talk  of  all  this  freely  together.  Why 
shouldn't  we  speak  now,  as  it  may  be  we  shall 
speak  then  ?  Our  friends  know  nothing  of  this 
meeting — they  need  never  know.  All  that  is 
in  our  own  hands.  When  we  leave  this  little 
island  for  the  earth  again,  you  could  take  the 
path  to  the  left,  I  to  the  right,  and,  if  you  so 
will  it,  all  can  be  as  if  this  talk  had  never 
been." 

He  turned  towards  her  again,  speaking  less 
resolutely,  more  earnestly:  "Can't  you  give 
me  out  of  your  whole  lifetime  these  few  mo 
ments — in  this  place  so  far  out  of  the  world  ? 
A  few  moments  is  all  I  ask." 

Hester  stood  looking  away  from  him  at  the 
ever -strengthening  waves.  Once  she  turned 
and  glanced  at  him,  and  he  saw  she  hesitated, 
but  he  would  not  urge  her. 

"  If  I  could  be  sure,"  she  began,  slowly — "  if 
I  could  be  sure  that  the  earthly  would  not 
enter—" 

He  interrupted  her  quickly.  "  In  your  hard 
est  thoughts  of  me,  have  you  ever  accused  me 
of  deceiving  you  ?" 

"  Not  of  deception." 

"  Then  accept  my  promise.    If  you  consent 
the  earthly  shall  not  enter." 
261 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

She  looked  up  at  him  again,  and  as  he  met 
her  look  fully  and  gravely,  she  turned  as  if  to 
find  a  seat  on  the  shelving  rock  behind  them. 
Goodhue  accepted  the  implied  consent. 

"  But  we  shouldn't  stop  here,"  he  said,  prac 
tically.  "  The  sun  is  so  low  on  the  other  side 
of  the  rock,  this  side  is  growing  too  cold.  If 
we  climb  to  the  top  of  the  rock  we  can  catch 
the  warmth  of  the  last  rays,  and  we  can  watch 
the  causeway,  too,  as  it  uncovers." 

Hester  let  him  help  her  to  the  heights,  and 
sat  down  silently  in  the  crevice  he  selected 
as  yielding  most  comfort  for  her.  Goodhue 
knew  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  speak,  but 
he  was  silent,  looking  down  towards  the  cause 
way  wiped  wholly  out  of  existence  by  the  sea. 

"  The  tide  is  full,  I  think,"  he  said,  finally. 
"  We  have  only  to  wait  for  it  to  fall." 

Hester's  eyes  also  were  fixed  in  the  distance, 
he  believed  on  nothing. 

Goodhue  spoke  abruptly.  "  Perhaps  it  will 
be  easier  to  plunge  in  at  once.  When  we  part 
ed,  had  you  no  idea  of  what  parted  us  ?  Did 
you  never" — his  gaze  dropped  to  her  hands 
which  lay  clasped  in  her  lap — "  suspect  another 
woman  ?"  He  saw  her  fingers  tighten  sudden 
ly,  and,  glancing  up,  saw  her  quivering  face, 
and  bent  towards  her  with  a  word  of  protest 
262 


on  his  lips ;  but  before  it  found  utterance  she 
had  moved  back,  still  facing  him  and  meeting 
his  eyes  so  fully  and  collectedly  that  he  caught 
his  breath. 

"  Go  on,"  she  answered,  simply.  "  It  was  the 
first  cut  only  that  hurt.  I  had  suspected  this 
among  other  things.  Have  you  more  to 
say  ?" 

"  Something  I  scarcely  dare  put  into  words. 
Do  you  remember  nothing  strange  in  our  first 
letters  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  she  answered,  after  a  moment's 
thought. 

"  Because  you  have  not  the  key  yet.  When 
I  first  wrote  you  from  my  Paris  studio,  you  re 
member  it  was  about  some  unimportant  detail 
of  color  which  we  had  discussed  together.  You 
recollect  that  ?" 

"Yes,  and  I  replied,  thanking  you.  It  all 
seemed  unimportant." 

"Yet  you  couldn't  know  how  your  reply, 
short  as  it  was,  differed  from  anything  I  ex 
pected.  There  was  nothing  very  marked  in  it, 
yet  it  was  different.  Later,  when  I  had  drawn 
another  and  another  letter  from  you,  I  did 
write  you  that  I  had  scarcely  dared  hope  for 
any  answers  whatever,  because  when  we  met 
you  seemed  so  shy  and  inaccessible.  A  wood 
263 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

violet  could  not  have  been  more  retiring.  Did 
you  never  wonder  at  my  thinking  that  ?" 

"  Why  should  I  ?  You  had  met  me  in  a 
crowded  house-party  for  two  days  only.  That 
was  all.  I  saw  you  had  gained  a  wrong  impres 
sion  of  me,  which  I  remember  I  attempted  to 
dispel." 

"  It  was  done  quickly  and  effectively,  and  for 
ever.  For  days  I  did  not  know  whether  your 
letter  of  self-revelation  most  fascinated  me  or 
bewildered  me.  It  was  all  so  truthful,  so  deli 
cate,  so  fantastic,  yet  so  unlike  my  idea  of  what 
you  were.  First  you  condoled  with  me  teas- 
ingly  as  a  color-blind  artist  mistaking  a  rose 
for  a  violet.  Then  you  went  on  more  seriously 
to  tell  me  there  were  rose-women  and  violet- 
women  born  into  the  world  differing  as  dis 
tinctly  as  the  flowers,  and  the  perfume  of 
the  rose  was  not  the  perfume  of  the  violet. 
That  was  all,  but  it  was  enough  to  reveal  you. 
Hester,  when  I  laid  your  letter  down,  I  could 
smell  roses !  Later,  perhaps  then,  I  knew  I 
loved  you,  and  when  at  last  I  wrote  you  so,  you 
answered — you  know  what  you  answered."  He 
paused  and  went  on  with  difficulty,  but  rapidly, 
not  looking  at  her.  "  I  could  hardly  wait  to 
finish  my  work — hardly  wait  to  cross  to  you — 
and  then  I  stood  in  your  home  waiting  for  you 
264 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

to  come  down  to  me,  and  I  could  call  up,  as  I 
think  only  an  artist  can,  every  feature  of  the 
woman  I  had  seen  but  once  and  learned  to  love 
by  letter  only — remember  that.  How  shall  I 
tell  you  ?  Your  eyes  are  violet,  your  hair  is 
dark.  The  face  I  saw  so  vividly  as  I  waited 
there  for  you  had  soft  brown  eyes  and  the  hair 
was  fair,  and — it  was  Anne's  face  I  saw,  Hes 
ter." 

"  Anne — my  own  sister.  Oh  no — no  !  She 
has  been  with  me  night  and  day  through  all 
this — she  could  not — " 

"  She  knew  nothing — knows  nothing  now." 
"  Oh,  speak  plainly — my  own  sister  !" 
Goodhue  laid  his  hands  strongly  on  hers  as 
they  lay  trembling  on  her  knees. 

"  Try  to  listen  calmly.  It  is  hard  to  explain 
at  best.  And  Anne — remember  this  always — 
knew  nothing  at  any  time.  When  I  first  saw 
you  both  it  was  together,  staying  in  the  same 
house.  I  never  spoke  to  you  apart.  You  called 
each  other  '  Sister.'  I  only  learned  your  Chris 
tian  name  when  you  signed  it  in  your  first  let 
ter  to  me.  I  thought  Anne  indisputably  the 
older.  She  seems  so  in  her  repose.  You  are 
very  unlike,  and  she  is  a  violet,  Hester.  I  ad 
dressed  my  first  letter  to  her  as  the  supposed 
elder,  and  you  as  the  actual  elder  received  it. 
265 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

I  might  have  written  to  one  as  well  as  the  oth 
er.  You  were  both  artists.  There  was  noth 
ing  to  undo  the  error,  and  it  was  to  Anne  that 
I  believed  myself  writing  in  all  those  months. 
It  was  Anne  I  thought  I  loved  and  courted — 
you  who  replied.  This  is  the  miserable  story. 
You  know  the  whole."  He  paused,  then  went  on 
with  a  difficulty  that  grew  always  greater. 
"  Do  you  remember,  it  was  Anne  who  came  in 
to  me  first  when  I  was  waiting  for  you  ?  Can't 
you  fancy  my  bewilderment  when  I  saw  her 
standing  there  in  the  door -way,  warding  me 
off  with  her  outstretched  palms  —  remember, 
I  thought  she  was  my  promised  wife !  I  heard 
her  say  she  had  only  come  to  welcome  'a  new 
brother,'  and  it  seemed  to  me  the  world  turned 
round,  and  then  she  laughed  in  my  face  and 
ran  away  suddenly  because  she  heard  another 
door  at  the  end  of  the  room  opening  slowly. 
You  know  who  came  in  that  door,  Hester.  I 
saw  your  glorious  violet  eyes,  your  vivid  face, 
your  lovely  dark  hair,  and  you  came  towards 
me — if  I  could  only  see  you  coming  so  now — 
both  hands  held  out,  half  shy,  all  gracious — " 

With  a  swift  motion  Hester  cowered  down 
where  she  sat,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 
"And  you  let  me  !"  she  cried — "you  let  me !" 

Goodhue  bent  towards  her,  clasping  her  wrists 
266 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

in  his  hands,  speaking  eagerly.  "  Hester,  be 
just  to  me,  now  quickly,  before  you  think  of 
yourself.  What  could  I  do  ?  If  you  suffer  so 
in  the  thought  that  I  played  your  lover  for  a 
few  distracted  days,  try  to  think  of  what  I 
saved  you  by  refusing  to  play  your  husband. 
Think,  too,  of  what  I  endured,  loving  the  body 
of  one  woman,  the  soul  of  another.  It  was  like 
acting  out  some  horrible  tragic  farce.  Day  by 
day  I  had  to  see  the  body  that  I  loved  passing 
me,  every  graceful  motion  holding  my  gaze, 
and  yet,  when  those  dear,  familiar  lips  moved 
to  speak,  they  spoke  a  tongue  I  neither  knew 
nor  cared  for.  Could  I  have  met  Anne's  soul 
alone,  I  knew  I  should  never  have  recognized 
it.  On  the  other  side  were  your  mind,  your 
heart,  your  spirit,  so  familiar,  so  dear  to  me, 
but  clothed  in  a  strange  body.  Again  and 
again,  when  you  spoke  to  me  of  some  lovely 
thoughts  you  had  only  written  of  before,  I 
turned  to  you  expecting  to  see  the  features 
I  had  called  up  so  vividly  when  reading  your 
written  words,  and  then  your  unfamiliar  face 
— can't  you  understand  it? — would  strike  me 
as  a  blow.  Hester,  it  is  now  the  one  face  I 
care  for,  the  one  I  was  always  seeing,  always 
longing  to  see."  He  drew  her  hands  from  her 
face,  and  they  lay  so  passively  in  his  that  his 
267 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

heart  sank.  "  I  have  told  you  everything,"  he 
said,  slowly.  "  I  was  almost  mad  when  I  let 
you  see  at  last  that  there  was  some  ugly  knot. 
I  let  you  cut  it  without  telling  you  what  it 
was.  How  could  I  tell  you  then  ?  How  could 
I  tell  myself  what  I  felt  ?  Have  you  nothing 
to  say  to  me,  Hester  ?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  from  which 
the  lustre  had  gone.  "I  can  forgive  you  now," 
she  said,  wearily.  "  Of  course,  no  one  was  to 
blame.  It  was  an  accident,  that  was  all.  There 
is  nothing  to  forgive." 

"  I  am  asking  more  than  forgiveness  now," 
said  Goodhue,  slowly.  He  was  speaking  care 
fully,  with  well-controlled  emotion.  "Almost 
as  soon  as  I  left  you,  it  came  to  me  that,  after 
all,  it  was  you — your  spirit — I  had  loved,  not 
at  all  what  I  thought  had  clothed  it,  and  then 
slowly  your  own  beauty  began  to  haunt  me. 
Soon,  too  soon,  I  knew  that  the  face  I  had  seen 
as  I  read  your  letters,  as  I  wrote  to  you,  was 
never  the  face  you  could  have  worn.  Your  face, 
your  eyes,  yourself,  began  to  fit  your  soul  for 
me,  and  at  last  I  knew  you  as  you  were,  not  as 
half  another.  Your  own  hands,  your  own  eyes, 
the  very  way  you  sit  as  you  listen,  as  you  are 
sitting  now,  all  grew  clearer  and  clearer  in  my 
memory.  It  was  not  the  soul  only  I  wanted — 
268 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

but  you,  all  of  you,  body  and  soul,  as  I  learned 
to  mate  them.  Hester,  it  was  accident  that 
parted  us,  but  to-day  hasn't  an  accident  flung 
us  together  again  ?  I  have  told  you  every 
thing.  Now  I  dare  ask  more  than  forgiveness. 
I  ask  you  for  all  that  a  man  can  ask,  all  that  a 
woman  can  give." 

Her  hands  were  still  in  his,  and  she  made 
no  effort  to  release  them,  but  he  knew  it  was 
for  no  tenderer  reason  than  pity  as  she  looked 
up  and  answered:  "There  is  nothing  to  for 
give  you,  but  there  isn't  anything  left  to  give, 
either.  As  I  told  you,  all  that  is  over  and 
burned  out.  There  is  nothing  here  now — can 
be  nothing  but  cold  ashes." 

She  loosed  one  hand  as  she  spoke,  and  laid 
it  on  her  breast.  Goodhue  caught  the  hand 
back  to  him,  urging  her  by  pressure  and  voice. 

"  Hester,  try  to  see  it  differently.  To-day, 
as  I  passed  over  the  moor,  I  saw  what  you  might 
have  called  a  destroyed  field  of  grass,  burned 
out,  nothing  but  cold  ashes.  Yet  I  knew  be 
cause  of  that  burning  the  verdure  there  will 
be  doubled  in  the  spring.  We  have  both  suf 
fered  cruelly,  both  been  through  the  fire,  can't 
we  make  that  help  us  to  a  closer  life  ?" 

She  moved  restlessly,  releasing  both  her 
hands.  "  No,  the  fire  has  been  too  fierce.  It 
269 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

has  destroyed.  We  can  meet  only  for  this  hour 
in  this  world  apart  and  on  the  terms  we  agreed 
upon.  You  are  letting  the  earthly  enter." 

Goodhue's  eyes  turned  to  the  causeway,  for 
gotten  in  the  nearer  question.  "Forgive  me 
if  I  thought  it  the  heavenly,"  he  answered ; 
"  and  my  promise  was  that  the  earthly  should 
not  enter  while  we  were  in  the  world  apart; 
you  see  we  are  not  cut  off  now." 

Hester's  eyes  followed  his.  The  waters,  re 
ceding  as  rapidly  as  they  had  risen,  had  un 
covered  the  narrow,  wet  backbone  of  red-rock 
ridging  across  from  the  main-land,  leaving  a 
clear  path  to  the  shore. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  we  are  free  to  go  ?"  she 
asked. 

"We  are  no  longer  cut  off,  or,  rather,  you  are 
cut  off  from  nothing.  For  me— am  I  to  live 
cut  off  from  everything  I  care  to  live  for,  Hes 
ter?  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  urge  you. 
Dearest,  you  did  love  me  —  by  that  love  so 
close,  so  womanly  in  the  past,  I  entreat  you  ! 
You  can  recall  it  ;  trust  me  it  can  return 
richer,  more  ripe  with  promise  than  before." 

He  realized  that  she  raised  her  eyes  not  to 
read  his  mind,  but  that  he  might  read  hers. 
When  she  spoke  he  knew  already  what  the 
reply  would  be. 

270 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

"  That  has  all  gone  from  me  forever,  not 
only  for  you,  but  for  any  one  on  earth.  My 
hand  offended  me  and  I  cut  it  off.  My  maim 
ing  is  absolute  and  for  life.  That  is  all." 

"  You  are  deciding  hastily." 

"  I  am  not  deciding  at  all.  Life  has  decided 
for  me." 

"  Hester,  see,  I  can  gather  your  hands  into 
mine,  your  eyes  into  mine.  They  belong  there 
now  as  surely,  as  lovingly,  as  your  soul  was 
once  gathered  into  my  soul.  You  feel  this. 
You  are  free  to  part  them  all  forever,  but  can 
you  ?" 

Hester  shrank  back,  her  hands,  her  eyes  quiv 
ering  from  his  hold. 

"  Oh,  you  only  quicken  me  to  suffer.  I  have 
decided.  This  must  be  the  end." 

She  rose,  turning  from  him  to  face  the  glow 
ing  western  sky  and  the  world  between.  A  rim 
of  the  red,  setting  sun  hung  in  the  horizon  for 
a  moment,  then  dropped  below  the  line.  Down 
the  coast  the  sunset  cannon  told  the  death  of 
another  day.  A  hush  and  gloom  closed  in  with 
the  falling  echoes,  and  from  the  light-houses 
on  the  distant  island  leaped  the  blaze  of  two 
leopard-like  eyes.  Hester  started  when  Good- 
hue's  voice  again  broke  the  silence.  He  spoke 
lightly,  she  knew,  to  veil  emotion. 
271 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

"  So  be  it.  Come,  Hester,  inexorable  angel 
of  the  flaming  sword  !  The  gateway  to  earth 
is  wide  open  again.  I  have  lived  in  Paradise 
an  hour.  If  it  has  been  that  of  a  fool,  never 
mind.  Only — let  me  leave  it  without  waiting !" 

On  the  main-land  two  little  half-beaten  paths 
rose  from  the  causeway  to  run  inland — the  one 
to  the  right,  the  other  to  the  left.  The  right- 
hand  path  runs  in  and  out  between  golden- 
rod  and  red -berried  rose  -  trees,  to  be  lost  at 
times  among  the  bay  bushes  that  spread  their 
heavy  green  leaves  and  gray  aromatic  berries 
above  a  yellow  carpet  of  scented  grass.  The 
path  to  the  left  leads  straight  and  uncompromis 
ingly  along  the  rocky  coast.  Goodhue  glanced 
from  one  path  to  the  other,  as  he  helped  Hes 
ter  over  the  last  stepping-stones,  and  they  stood 
together  on  the  main-land. 

"There  is  your  path,"  he  said, "to  the  right, 
over  the  moors.  That  rocky  way  to  the  left, 
the  steep,  single  path,  is  mine." 

Hester  looked  up  towards  the  crags  of  the 
right-hand  path.  "Mine  is  single  also,"  she 
said,  quickly.  But  Goodhue  did  not  respond. 

"  Why  do  you  make  me  seem  so  harsh  ?"  she 
cried,  suddenly,  turning  to  him.     "  There  has 
been  too  much   suffering  on  both  sides.     At 
least  we  may  think  kindly  of  each  other." 
272 


THIS    MORTAL    COIL 

She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  as  if  of 
fering  a  friendly  parting.  Goodhue  took  her 
hand  in  his,  holding  it  gently,  as  he  replied, 
smiling: 

"There  was  once  a  queen  whose  starving 
people  cried  to  her  for  bread,  and  she  asked 
why  they  didn't  eat  'little  cakes.'  She  was  as 
innocent  as  you,  Hester  —  but  none  the  less 
cruel."  Again  he  saw  that  she  hesitated,  and  he 
waited  patiently  until  she  spoke,  tremulously  : 

"We  must  part  in  peace." 

"Forgive  me  if  I  seemed  rude  to  you  just 
now.  But  as  you  say  you  can  be  nothing  to 
me,  be  nothing,  I  beg  of  you.  Let  it  all  end 
here.  Let  me  go  my  way  at  once  and  you 
yours." 

He  saw  her  eyes  turn  from  one  path  to  the 
other,  then  out  over  the  sea  where  the  two 
great  leopard  eyes  stared  blazing  through  the 
gathering  darkness.  Goodhue  drew  back  a 
step,  loosening  his  grasp  on  her  hand,  which 
she  had  left  in  his. 

"  Wait !"  she  cried,  quickly.  "  Oh,  wait  a  mo 
ment.  If  to  part  like  this  is  so  hard,  then  I 
must  be  able  to  think  of  something  that  will 
soften  it." 

"  I  will  wait,"  he  answered,  "  but  you  will 
think  of  nothing,  as  it  cannot  be  all." 
s  273 


THIS    MORTAL   COIL 

Again  he  watched  her  eyes  turning  to  the 
diverging  paths,  fpllowing  the  narrow  way  of 
each  so  far  as  sight  might  carry  her.  When 
she  at  last  looked  up  at  him  again  he  could  no 
longer  read  her  thoughts.  Yet  her  altering 
face  seemed  to  him  as  a  book,  fluttering  open 
in  his  hand. 

"  If  you  will  not  take  my  peace,"  she  began, 
"  nor  my  kindness,  then  you  will  have  to  take 
my  confusion.  We  have  been  talking  as  if  we 
were  soul  to  soul.  I  am  still  trying  to  speak 
so.  My  feet  seem  somehow  to  refuse  my  path, 
and  yet  —  they  refuse  yours  equally.  I  am 
standing  here  utterly  unhappy  either  way  I 
look." 

The  salt  airs  blowing  in  from  the  ocean  seemed 
wrapping  the  gloom  about  them,  the  odors  of 
the  bay-leaves  crushed  beneath  their  feet  rose 
in  aromatic  sweetness.  Goodhue  bent  over 
the  hand  he  held,  pressing  it  to  his  lips,  then 
laid  it  gently  in  his  arm  and  turned  towards 
the  path  on  the  moors. 

"  Come,"  he  said, "  I  am  very  patient,  Hester. 
Let  me  take  your  path  for  a  while.  Dear,  I  ac 
cept  your  kindness  and  your  peace  alone  for 
the  present,  for  so  long  as  you  shall  wish,  and 
for  the  future — " 


BY  MARY  E.  WILKINS 


SILENCE,  and  Other  Stories.  Illustrated.  16mo,  Cloth,  Or 
namental,  $1  25. 

JEROME,  A  POOR  MAN.  A  Novel.  Illustrated.  16mo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  60. 

MADELON.     A  Novel.     16mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

PEMBROKE.  A  Novel.  Illustrated.  16mo,  Cloth,  Orna 
mental,  $1  50. 

JANE  FIELD.  A  Novel.  Illustrated.  16mo,  Cloth,  Orna 
mental,  $1  25. 

A  NEW  ENGLAND  NUN,  and  Other  Stories.  16mo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1  25. 

A  HUMBLE  ROMANCE,  and  Other  Stories.  16mo,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1  25. 

YOUNG  LUCRETIA,  and  Other  Stories.  Illustrated.  Post 
8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

GILES  COREY,  YEOMAN.  A  Play.  Illustrated.  32mo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  50  cents. 

Mary  E.  Wilkins  writes  of  New  England  country  life,  analyzes  New 
England  country  character,  with  the  skill  and  deftness  of  one  who 
knows  it  through  and  through,  and  yet  never  forgets  that,  while  real 
istic,  she  is  first  and  last  an  artist. — Boston  Advertiser. 

Miss  Wilkins  has  attained  an  eminent  position  among  her  literary 
contemporaries  as  one  of  the  most  careful,  natural,  and  effective 
writers  of  brief  dramatic  incident.  Few  surpass  her  in  expressing  the 
homely  pathos  of  the  poor  and  ignorant,  while  the  humor  of  her  stories 
is  quiet,  pervasive,  and  suggestive. — Philadelphia  Press. 

It  takes  just  such  distinguished  literary  art  as  Mary  E.  Wilkins  pos 
sesses  to  give  an  episode  of  New  England  its  soul,  pathos,  and  poetry. 
—N.  T.  Times. 

The  pathos  of  New  England  life,  its  intensities  of  repressed  feeling, 
Its  homely  tragedies,  and  its  tender  humor,  have  never  been  better 
told  than  by  Mary  E.  Wilkins. — Boston  Courier. 

The  simplicity,  purity,  and  quaintness  of  these  stories  set  them  apart 
in  a  niche  of  distinction  where  they  have  no  rivals. — Literary  World, 
Boston. 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  acquaintance 
and  comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet  human  interest  she 
feels  and  makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in  the  simple,  common,  homely 
people  she  draws. — Springfield  Republican. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

ny  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any 
part  oftlie  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  KUTH  McENERY  STUART 


MORIAH'S  MOURNING,  and  Other  Half -Hour 
Sketches.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 
$1  25. 

IN  SIMPKINSVILLE.  Character  Tales.  Illustrated. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  25. 

SOLOMON  CROW'S  CHRISTMAS  POCKETS,  and 
Other  Tales.  Illustrated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Orna 
mental,  $1  25. 

CARLOTTA'S  INTENDED,  and  Oilier  Tales.  Illus 
trated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

A  GOLDEN  WEDDING,  and  Other  Tales.  Illus 
trated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

THE  STORY  OF  BABETTE  :  A  Little  Creole  Girl. 
Illustrated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  §1  50. 

Mrs.  Stuart  is  one  of  some  balf-dozen  American  writers 
who  are  doing  the  best  that  is  being  done  for  English  litera 
ture  at  the  present  time.  Her  range  of  dialect  is  extraordi 
nary  ;  but,  after  all,  it  is  not  the  dialect  that  constitutes  the 
chief  value  of  her  work.  That  will  be  found  in  its  genuine 
ness,  lighted  up  as  it  is  by  superior  intelligence  and  imagina 
tion  and  delightful  humor. — Chicago  Tribune. 

Mrs.  Stuart  is  a  genuine  humorist. — N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

Few  surpass  Mrs.  Stuart  in  dialect  studies  of  negro  life  and 
character. — Detroit  Free  Press. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND    LONDON 


oftJie  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage 
prepaid,  to  any  part  of  tlie  United  States,  Canada,  or 
Mexico,  on  receipt  of  tJie  price. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


A  A      000023831 


Un: 


